


Deep in December

by tonystarxk (romanoff)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Bucky Barnes Angst, Bucky Barnes Will Be Okay One Day, F/M, Fix-It, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt Tony Stark, Interrogation, Kinda, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Steve Angst, Terrorism, Tony Angst, Tony Stark Feels, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 19:11:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 55,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6766348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanoff/pseuds/tonystarxk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of their civil war, the Avengers are scattered. Tony is left to pick up the pieces, while Steve asks himself if it was ever worth it at all. </p><p>Then, Tony is arrested, and Steve called to extract him. It all gets complicated from there. </p><p>Otherwise known as: a long-ass fic with gratuitous team bonding and, quite frankly, SHOCKING levels of angst. Read at your peril; I'm not saying it's always going to be a happy ride.</p><p>(Update days are every Friday, unless the chapter's short, in which case there might be one randomly in the week as well)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tony

**Author's Note:**

> Okay.
> 
> So disclaimer: I have about 20,000 words of this written. I have no interest in continuing it if I don't see that people really want it finished, because I have major exams coming up and I really don't want to waste time
> 
> That being said, I'm very motivated to get this done. I've tagged the main relationship, which is Bucky/Steve, and I won't tag the others because it'll give away spoilers for the story. The central characters in this fic will be Tony, Steve, Natasha, Bucky; it will be long, and they'll each have a large part to play (although Bucky won't be popping up until maybe chapter ten? Not quite sure on the exact timing, but I'll let y'all know)
> 
> Okay, another disclaimer: people will do things in this fic you do not like. They'll almost definitely make choices you don't like, have opinions on your favourite characters you don't like, basically NO ONE comes out of this smelling like roses. I mean, there's definitely going to be a happy ending, but I'm trying this thing where I write characters like actual, real, mature people who fuck up constantly and have very real human urges. On that note, it'll be very difficult to tag anything in advance, so I'll warn at the end of each chapter if I think something funky is coming up. Let's just say it'll have 'adult themes'?

Kevin likes to antagonise him.

“Let’s start at that broken nose,” he says, pointing with the chewed end of his pen at the crooked bend of what was once Tony’s relatively straight bridge. “Tell me, Tony: did you provoke the captain?”

Tony, for his part, had sat their sullenly. “No,” he’d said eventually “of course not.”

“Right,” Kevin smiles. “You’re not a masochist.”

“Not the last time I checked.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Tony should psychoanalyse Kevin. He should point out he chews his pen and he wears his socks turned down, which is clearly indicative of a sociopathic if not immensely sadistic and irritating personality. Instead, he grits his teeth: “Yes, I’m sure about that.”

Kevin nods. “See?” He grins “We’re making progress.”

This is punishment, Tony knows. Punishment for the whole fucking debacle. Ross is going to chew Tony out as long and has hard as he can, until Tony relents and agrees to play by his rules, or bottoms out completely and resigns. God, he’d love to resign. It would be like being released from a fucking prison sentence.

Until such a point, however, accord-mandated therapy is what he needs to keep his suits. Something about being volatile? Tony isn’t volatile, he’s never lost control in his life. Of course, once it came out that he’d donned a suit and flown out to Siberia only to have Steve and Barnes in his grasp and _let them go…_

Well. Accord-mandated therapy was the easy route. Prison seemed harsher, but only slightly. At least there, Kevin would be behind a glass wall.

“God, Tony, we have so much to get through,” Kevin blows air up so it pushes at the fringes of his thick brown hair. “Let’s start with your testimony: you arrive at the facility, correct?”

“Obviously.”

“You’ve come under the guise of friendship, after violating our security systems on the raft.”

“Yes.”

“The captain and Barnes, they aren’t hostile?”

“Not after I explain.”

“And then,” Kevin heaves a sigh “and then something happens, doesn’t it Tony? Why don’t you talk to me about what happened?”

“You want me to repeat it?”

“Just once more, for the record.”

Tony’s fingers dig themselves into the leather of his chair. “You sure? You haven’t got it down enough times in writing?”

Kevin’s smile is steely. “Just once more.”

(Tony hates this.)

“Then – Zemo was there.”

“And what happened?”

“And he showed us a video,” Tony mutters.

“Yes, he did. Do you want to describe it, Tony?”

“No.”

Kevin makes a chiding noise. “It’s better to get things out in the open, Tony. Saying words out loud, they lessen anger. Let out pressure. Why don’t you just say what you saw in the video.”

“No.”

“We both know what it was, Tony. Don’t make this hard for yourself. I need to check off that you’ve overcome what is clearly a debilitating and crucial mental block. And if you can’t bring yourself to describe it…”

“A _debilitating mental block?”_ Tony spits, voice rising. “Christ you’re a wormy little son of a – “

“Keep talking,” Kevin says, mildly. “I can see we’re still having problems with anger.”

It never used to be a problem, actually. Kevin’s probably right about something: whatever’s happened to him, it’s hard to keep a lid on it nowadays. He feels worn thin, like a violin string that’s been drawn too many times. But it’s not worth losing control like that, not again. Never like that again.

“You described it earlier as – mindless? Is that what you said?”

“Why do you keep asking me when you have a transcript right there?”

“I’m trying to encourage conversation.”

“Yes, Kevin, yes the rage was mindless. If I’d – if there had been thought to it, I wouldn’t have done it, would I?” He snaps, bunching his hands over his lap.

“Obviously, I’m sympathetic,” Kevin says, with all the sympathy of a honey badger. “If I had been in that position – Barnes has hurt so many of us. No one can blame you for what you did, not really. But fact is, in your position, it’s important to stay in control. And you decidedly did not. And what happened?”

Kevin pauses, as if waiting for an answer. Tony grits his teeth. “And I let them get away.”

“And you let them get away,” he echoes back, smug.

Tony taps the tips of his fingers against the worn leather. “Are we done?” He asks “Is that it?”

Kevin shrugs. “Sure, we can leave it for today,” he folds up the file and stands, clicks his back. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Right. Sure.”

“Got to keep tabs on you, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Ross would like to remind you,” Kevin says, glancing through his papers “that you’re on a strike system: letting Barnes and Rogers leave the airport – “

“Strike one, I know.”

“And you could tell me the others?”

“Letting Natasha leave. Breaking into Raft systems. Flying out without authorisation, letting Barnes and Steve escape. Five strikes.”

“One more, and you’ll find yourself in a world of trouble, Tony.”

“I _know.”_

“Hey,” Kevin’s voice goes mock-soft and attempts to be caring “I’m only saying this with your best interests at heart, as your psychiatrist.”

“Right. As my, accord-mandated, unwelcome, psychiatrist. Of course,” Tony stands, gestures with his arm as if graciously showing Kevin the door “you only have my interests at heart.”

Kevin stares at him for a long time. Then he snaps his briefcase shut. “You should watch yourself, Tony,” he says quietly. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

 

“How’d it go?” Rhodey asks, pushing himself into the kitchen. “Oh, that bad? You shouldn’t do that. You should not drink this early.” He reaches up and tugs the bourbon from Tony’s fingers, empties it fluidly down the drain. “Use your words, Tones.”

Tony grunts, fumbles around the kitchen for coffee grinds and a clean mug. “Nothing he hasn’t said before.”

“Any word when you’re going to get off probation?”

“Honestly, probably never.” Tony’s shoulders slump, he exhales. Rests his brow on his hand and kneads his eyes. “This wasn’t – I’m out of action. You’re out of action. Vision, Vision is out of action, and we’re the only three left.”

“Yes,” Rhodey says, measuredly “that’s right.”

“And – “ Tony almost says ‘I can’t sleep knowing that there isn’t _someone_ watching the world in my absence’ but he doesn’t want to worry Jim. Not anymore than he is already. Sometimes, Tony almost regrets the Accords – almost. Then he remembers what would have happened if he hadn’t signed, if none of them had, and the guilt lessens if only slightly. “And yeah. That’s it.” He lifts the pot off the stands and pours himself some coffee.

“You want some?” Tony asks, stirring in sugar. “It’s fresh.”

“I’m good,” Rhodey says, and he’s watching Tony with that – God, that look, that quiet considering look he’s turned on him too many times. “Pepper called, this morning.”

Tony’s first sip is too hot and he burns his tongue. “Christ,” he mutters, quickly setting the mug down on the granite tabletop. “Okay.”

“She’s going to come by for dinner. Tonight.”

“I can’t do tonight,” Tony says shortly, adding more sugar to his coffee, as if that will cool it down somehow.

“I don’t think she cares, and I think she knows when you’re lying.”

“We’ll need to cook, I can’t cook,” Tony spins his coffee furiously with a spoon “and besides the place is a mess. And I’m a mess. And – and she shouldn’t come.” Tony finishes, lamely.

“Well, you have the whole day,” Rhodey says with a small smile. “Get busy. It’s not like you have anything else to do.”

Tony narrows his eyes. “Don’t push it.”

“You been sleeping, Tony?” Rhodey asks, spinning and wheeling over to the couches. “You’ve got big bruises under your eyes, it’s kinda noticeable.”

“I’ll – cover them.”

“I won’t tell her if you don’t.”

“Great. Thanks.”

“You should make spaghetti, everyone likes spaghetti.”

“Can’t, she’s on a – low carb thing. I think.” Tony had read that in a magazine about a week ago, but he can’t be sure. “Maybe just meat and salad, I don’t know.”

“Just meat and salad,” Rhodey grins “what kind of meat? That’s very vague, Tony. If you saw that in a restaurant, what would you – “

Tony doesn’t remember throwing the mug at the wall, but he feels sickening pleasure when it wipes the smile of Jim’s face. At least for a moment. Then he feels mortification and a thick sense of guilt. “Shit,” he blurts “shit, sorry. That was – an accident.”

Rhodey isn’t smiling anymore. “Yeah,” he says slowly “sure.”

“I’ll clean that up,” he mutters, going for a dishrag. He uses his bare hands to pick the ceramic, and cuts his palm. It doesn’t even hurt. “You don’t have to hang over me like that,” Tony says “go. Go do whatever it is you do, just – leave, please.”

Rhodey’s lips are a grim line. “Clean that with antiseptic,” he says, referring to the new cut on Tony’s hand. “And then sort yourself out. You look like you haven’t changed your clothes in days.”

He hates what’s happened to his life.

 

“This is delicious,” Pepper say, almost too enthusiastically. “I was on a low-carb thing, but I can make an exception for this. Tony, did you cook?”

“Yeah.”

“You never cooked before.”

“Well I have more time on my hands now,” he says shortly, staring down his wine glass.

Pepper nods, lips tight. “Rhodey,” she says “how’s the physio?”

“Ah, it is what it is,” he says, and Tony hates how he can always be so fucking affable. Tony wants to be affable again. He can’t even smile, and he’s not the one who lost his legs, so what’s his excuse? “I’m never gonna walk unaided, let’s just put it that way. But – I mean, you should see the prosthesis Tony cooked up. We’ll see, you know? The future’s bright.”

“I should have visited sooner,” Pepper says quietly, but with a soft smile. “I should have seen how my boys were doing. But you know, things are crazy. The new head of R&D – “

Tony stands, abruptly. “Does anyone want anything to drink? Other than wine, I mean. I’m going to get something a bit stronger.”

“For fuck’s sake Tony,” Pepper snaps “could you just – be civil? For an hour?”

“I’m only asking if anyone wants a drink. Rhodey? No? And none for you, sweetheart? Oh, well in that case – “ Tony heads to the counter and helps himself, mixes his wine with some of the vodka that Steve used to drink. There’s still some left over, which is funny, because Tony could have almost convinced himself he never existed.

“You haven’t told me what happened in Serbia,” Pepper calls “when are you going to tell me?”

“Why would I? I don’t owe you that.” Tony shuts the cabinet door with his hip and makes his way back to the table. “They’ve stuck me in therapy, though. Everyday. I’m grounded, on probation. It’s everything you ever wanted.”

“This is _never_ what I wanted.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“Really? Because you never asked.”

“Never _asked?”_ Tony spits “I blew up my suits for you! I gave up my company for you! When I – “

“Did I tell you to do those things?” Pepper snaps. She takes a long sip from her wine. Exhales through her nostrils. Her hair is perfect, it’s just one of those things Tony used to find endlessly fascinating; the ends are always perfectly neat, she has no flyaways or even grey hairs. She’s old enough for grey hairs, now. Does she dye it? Tony doesn’t know.

“I don’t want to fight,” Pepper continues, calmly. She holds out her hand on the table and, reluctantly, Tony takes it.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah. No, sorry, that’s me. I’m tightly wound, uh. Hey, I should take a vacation.”

Pepper’s smile is genuine. “I’ve always said that.”

“You’d have to take Kevin with you,” Rhodey pitches in, and Tony glares.

“Kevin?”

“My – pysch. My doctor. Kevin.”

“He sounds nice,” Pepper says removing her hand and going back to her spaghetti.

Rhodey snorts. Tony starts to giggle. “What?” Pepper asks “Something funny?”

“The man has the personality of a slapped ass,” Tony supplies “so no, nice isn’t the right word. But hey,” he sighs “this is it, right? Accountability. If I want the suit then – then I can’t go losing my temper.”

“Is that what happened? You…” Pepper shakes her head “you lost your temper?”

“It’s not – no. No it’s not that simple,” Tony pushes his food around his plate. “You know – it was one of those things you sort of had to be there for, so. I don’t expect you to understand. It won’t happen again.”

“Tony, you didn’t – you didn’t do something to Ross, did you?” Pepper asks with dawning horror.

“Which one?” Tony asks dryly.

“The _Secretary of State.”_

“No. Well – not exactly. I mean I went against his orders. But apart from that, no not directly. I – “ Tony lets out a sigh he’d been keeping bottled in, sips from his glass. “It was a moment of madness, I – I had a tough week, you know? I put a lot on the line for Steve. To give him second chances. And then, yes. I ‘lost my temper’.”

Pepper is silent, just carefully rolling her spaghetti round her fork, saying nothing. And it’s in that moment that Tony realises, fully, just how selfish he’s being. He questions a lot how his mother put up with his father: short answer is, she didn’t. She stuck by him because she loved him, and because he was the father of her only child. His mom’s life was not enjoyable. She doesn’t need to be commended for what she did, and neither does Pepper. Howard was a blight on her life, and Tony is a blight on Pepper’s, and suddenly, crystal clear, he realises –

“This isn’t working.”

Pepper blinks. “What?”

“This. Being on a break. It doesn’t work.”

Pepper stares. “Excuse me?”

“Rhodey, could you – “ Tony gestures apologetically. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, I’m leaving,” he mutters, pushing his chair back from the table and rolling away. “You do what you need to do. I’ll see you soon, Pep.”

He pats her arm on the way out. Tony doesn’t say anything else until he sees him leave, and then Pepper turns back to him at full force.

“Explain.” She says shortly, pushing away her plate.

“I mean, why are we calling it a break. This isn’t a break, it’s final. We’re not getting back together, are we?”

Pepper laces her hands together, rests them on the table. “Someday we might. After your eval goes through, when you’re back on duty. If Steve ever comes to his senses and comes home, things could be how they used to be. And – and I still love you,” she adds, weakly.

“Things will never be like they used to be.”

“They might.”

“You need to find someone else.”

“Meaning?”

Pepper is quiet. She taps her nails against the wood of the table. “Have you found someone else?” She asks eventually.

“ _What?”_

“Is that what this is about? There’s someone else?”

“God – no! Christ I’m trying to do you a favour. You can’t – be with me, anymore. And I can’t be with you. Because after Extremis after, God, _Stane,_ Hammer, Ultron, New York, whatever, on and on, it’s not fair to you, anymore. And I’m – tired,” Tony slumps “and you deserve better. And – I’m trying to be mature about this. And reasonable. And we both know we’re not getting back together, so let’s make it official.”

Pepper looks away, smooths one hand over the other, fiddles with a ring. “You know,” she says quietly “I’ll just say this. The people around you, Tony, we know the risks. And we’re always here by choice.” She stares at him, looks up. “Me, Rhodey. Happy, even. After Iron Man, before him, we knew the risks, and we all chose to stay. Don’t insult our choices; we all knew what we were getting into.”

Tony swallows. “Alright.”

Pepper stands. “I’m flying back to Malibu tomorrow night. You could join me, if you want. And we could make one more go of it.”

Tony knows his answer. “Thank you,” he says “but I can’t.”

So she nods, stiffly, and wipes imaginary lint from her skirt. “Come here,” she whispers, and fists her hands in Tony’s shirt, tugs him up so he’s standing. “I am so so sorry,” she breathes, and Tony’s brow finds her shoulder. Her fingers caress the hair at the nape of his neck. It helps soothe the headache that never really goes away anymore. “I know you only ever tried your best.”

For a moment, Tony wants to take it all back. Fuck him for being selfless and grandiose, he needs her, needs her like air, needs –

She kisses his brow. “You know where I’ll be, if you need me.”

And Tony smiles, as much as he can. “That’s all, Miss Potts.”

 

He’s started going grey. Well, he’s always had the occasional grey hair here and there, at his temples, in his beard. Now, it’s spreading out from his roots, obvious and very much _in your face._ He brushes his hair over his head; at least it’s not thinning. No, he has dad to thank for that at least. And then, the thought leaves an uncomfortable tug in his gut, and he pushes the thought away.

Fuck Bucky Barnes, and fuck Steve Rogers too. Fuck them for making it impossible to think about his parents without a shocking anger and then sense of guilt, mortification, and remorse all mixed into one. Fuck him for disappearing. And fuck Tony for not stopping them when he had the chance.

He still has the shield. Downstairs, in the weapons basement. He’s not _supposed_ to have it. He remembers crying out like a child: _You don’t deserve that shield! My dad made that shield!_ It wasn’t true. Steve deserved the shield, he made it what it was. Tony didn’t agree with what he made it, but still. Clearly, it’s not up to him.

They had found him stumbling in the snow. It was Tony’s fault: he’d gone undercover, in secret, and if no one knew where to find him, well, he’s to blame. He’d shed the suit, slipped down and out, and fallen somewhere about two miles west of the bunker he’d found Steve and Barnes in.

He was hospitalised with multiple contusions, a broken shoulder, broken nose, mild hypothermia, wounded pride, and a severe concussion. No one had visited, but Tony hadn’t expected them to, and that was okay. When he’d gotten out, Ross – well, both Ross’ -- had called him in. Told him he had taken unacceptable risks. That clearly, his actions were due to a fractured state of mind. That the Accords account for situations like this: the world needs superheroes, even when they’re suffering from mild PTSD.

And of course, there was a warning. Do it again, and you’re finished. There’s a cell in the Raft with your name on it. Don’t fuck up again.

Honestly Tony knows Ross would like nothing more than to just stick him in a cell and be done with him. Slowly scrape the remaining heroes away. Doesn’t matter what he says, Ross always hated super-powered, the whole Bruce debacle showed that. In fact, Tony suspects Ross’ grudge goes a bit further than simply wanting Tony put away for convenience sake; for him, it’s personal.

 

Tony can’t stop thinking about how scared his mom must have been when Barnes wrapped his hand around her throat. Or how she kept calling for dad. And how dad had been picked up like he weighed nothing, like a child, and had his brain spattered across the white of their car.

His nightmares are feverish and strange in tone. It’s been so long since he dreamed of Afghanistan, but tonight it’s as bright and real in his mind as if it was yesterday. Wormholes and glowing men, green eyes and electric whips. Snowy mountains, snowy roads. And then, _don’t waste your life. Don’t waste it, Stark._

Ouch.

 

Tony finds himself talking often to the jury inside his head. Yes, we know you say it was better than the alternative, but look what the Accords did to your team Tony. And sure, we realise you were angry at Barnes, but you know it wasn’t his fault he murdered your parents. You built Iron Man, but why didn’t you do more to save Mr Yinsen, Tony? And what about Wanda Maximoff and her brother, they were only children. Who do you think you were taking little Peter Parker and sticking him in a warzone? And how to you justify the creation of Ultron, Tony? Why do you let your ego get in the way of sense? Why do you always think you know best? How many people died in Sokovia? How many people died in New York? Why couldn’t you have tried to save Obie from himself, Tony? If you’d been to nice to Aldrich Killian, he wouldn’t have planted those bombs. Maya Hansen wouldn’t be dead. What about Clint’s family? Tony, if you hadn’t forced the Accords on them, he would still be safe with his kids. The list goes on, Mr Stark, it goes on and on, and the only question we have is what exactly are you going to do about it?

He keeps tabs on them, actually. Clint’s family. Not – not in a weird way. Just to make sure they’re okay, that no one’s bothering them. That Laura isn’t having trouble putting food on the table, keeping everything together. The youngest, Nathaniel, is still so small. But the kids are doing well at school, that’s good. And he knows they’ll see their dad soon, one day.

 

Unfortunately, Kevin just pushes his buttons. He flies to DC to undergo official evaluation. Everything goes downhill from there.

“Tony,” he smiles. “How are we feeling today? Better?”

“Better than what.”

“Than last time.”

“I was fine last time.”

“Really? If I remember correctly, we were having some problems with controlling our temper tantrums.”

Yeah, see, there. That’s it. Don’t talk to him like he’s six.

“Do you go out of your way to be patronising or is it, I don’t know, some form of brain damage?”

Kevin sighs. “Let’s talk about what happened in Serbia, Tony. It appeared I couldn’t get you to be cooperative last time.”

“Nothing to talk about. I shot Barnes, and I took off his arm. Steve… wasted me. I went home.”

“Do you think it’s possible you didn’t fight as hard as you should have?”

“What, to bring them in?”

“Exactly.”

“No. I fought harder than I’ve ever fought in my life. I was driven by murderous intent.”

“And let’s talk about that. Have you ever felt murderous intent before?”

“Yes.”

“When. Tell me about that.”

“In Afghanistan, towards the end of my captivity.”

“You took revenge on your captors for holding you?”

A brief pause. “Yeah.”

“Interesting. So what you mean is that, in Serbia, you were fighting for your life.”

Tony grits his teeth. “Yes, obviously.”

“But you didn’t win. Now, let’s talk about that. How is it that a suit which can go toe-to-toe with the hulk on a good day couldn’t withstand a blow from a vibranium shield?”

“Cap had a lot of anger.”

“But so did you.”

“He’s stronger, clearly.”

“Strong enough to take down Iron Man?”

“Obviously.”

Kevin takes a sip from his coffee, drums his fingers against the desk. “At the airport, then.”

Tony sighs inwardly. “What about it?”

“Barnes and Rogers. Agent Romanoff let them leave, correct?”

“I – yeah. Yeah, she did.”

Kevin nods slowly. “And after, there’s footage of the two of you in a hospital, looking over the treatment of Colonel Rhodes, yes?”

Tony pauses. “Yes.”

“And then, Tony, you let her leave.”

“She left.”

“You let her.”

“Not necessarily. It was – a difficult time. Rhodey’s like a brother, I – I wasn’t thinking correctly.”

“You failed to bring her in. That’s a law broken.”

“You’ve already grilled me about this.”

“Of course. It’s all on record. I’m just establishing for the cameras that you have a history of being insubordinate to authority.”

And that’s when Tony starts to suspect. “Yeah, I was. But I signed the Accords, didn’t I? More than others. I gave a lot for the document.”

“Of course,” Kevin says seriously “and we’re all very grateful, Tony. But there is one thing. The Captain, Mr Barnes. Where have they gone?”

And then Tony runs cold. “I don’t know.”

“That’s a lie.”

“What reason do I have to lie?” Tony spits “What, you think I want to protect him? Christ, I’ve already thrown all my other friend’s under the bus.”

“So you don’t know? You’ve never heard that the Captain has been hiding in Wakanda?”

Of course he has. He can’t know for sure, but – where else would he be? How Ross and his goons got their hands on this information he doesn’t know. He also knows he can’t bring war to T’challa’s doorstep. That anything he says now will make everything a thousand times worse than it was before.

“Why have I been called here, I was told it was a psyche eval, not an interrogation.”

“The Accords are pretty flexible.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes, Tony. They’re flexible with a lot. Lot’s of ambiguous writing. One has to take certain lengths with super-powered individuals that they can’t with ordinary, squishy humans, you understand.”

“I am human.”

Kevin nods. “Okay, Tony, here’s the thing: we intercepted Virginia Potts on her way to Malibu. She’s being held in a secure facility until we can assure the validity of your claim.”

“Are you out of your _fucking mind?_ She’s a civilian, she’s – she’s the CEO of SI, she can’t just _disappear,_ people will notice – “

“As of right now, James Rhodes is being called in on an urgent basis to a meeting in New York. From there, he’ll be transported to the same facility, at which point – “

“You can’t do that. It’s illegal. Rhodey hasn’t done anything, he hasn’t – why are you doing this? If this is an interrogation, then I deserve a lawyer.”

“No. Do you see where this is going Mr Stark? Your friends will never see the light of day again if you do not cooperate. Just tell the truth, and you’ll all be free to leave. Go on, Tony. Name Wakanda, go on.”

And that’s when Tony snaps.

He remembers smashing Kevin’s face to a pulp, and he’d forgotten how strong his hard, calloused hands were underneath the metal of his suit. Kevin’s cheek had collapsed so fantastically under his fist. And there are guards – why are there guards? Fuck, oh fuck it’s a _set up --_ dragging him away, and cuffing his hands behind his back, and Tony is screaming, cursing and kicking.

Kevin lifts his head, spits out a tooth, and grins.

Tony is fucked.

They must have drugged him. He wakes up on a bed in a cell. No need to tell him where: he helped design it. The Raft was designed to hold the hardest, most difficult to contain prisoners, although how Tony ended up in a padded cell he’ll never know.

He tests the cuffs; they hold. He twists his wrists, tries to tug free, but clearly that’s never going to happen. The cell is so quiet he can hear his blood pound in his ears. His ankles are similarly bound, and he can just about lift himself enough to see the glass window looking out onto other cells.

He goes for a scream to see what happens. He thumps his head back against the bed. A padded cell? Why a padded cell, he isn’t _crazy,_ he isn’t suicidal, what are they thinking? He hears the glass door open but can’t raise his head enough to see who it is. He hears his voice though, soon enough.

“Oh, Mr Stark,” Ross says, and he almost sounds sorrowful. “I can’t believe it’s come to this.”

Tony spits in his face.

Ross shakes his head sadly. “Such a great mind, gone to waste. You know, I should have listened. Mr Wilde tried to tell me you were unstable, but I just – I just had so much faith in you.”

“You’re a fucking liar,” Tony snaps “you’re a cunt licking cretanic liar and I swear to God I’m going to fucking _get you –_ “

“Are you?” Ross asks. “Really? Tony, you’re not going anywhere.”

“What have you done with Pepper? With Rhodey? What have you done with my friends? You can’t – “ Tony tugs at the straps once more, screams in frustration “you can’t _keep me here,_ I haven’t committed a crime! All I did was _punch_ someone that isn’t even a felony! Give me a lawyer you fucking – “

“No, no, Tony, you misunderstand. You’re not well. And it says, quite explicitly, in section 12 subsection C of the Accords that any super-powered person of majority age must submit themselves to proper sectioning. So people like Maximoff and Banner don’t lose their minds and go on rampages where we can’t control them. So all of you can get the help you need.”

“But I’m _human!_ I’m don’t _have_ any powers – “

“Oh, semantics. You’re safe here, Stark. You’ll get all the treatment you need. You’ll be sectioned indefinitely, of course. It could be a week,” Ross smiles down at him “it could be a year. Hell, it could be longer than that. But hey, you can rest assured in the knowledge that dangerous individuals such as yourself are being kept under control, safe and sound, right?”

He’s taunting him. This was his plan all along. “You haven’t got all of us, you corrupt bastard. There are still people left.”

“Oh really? I assume you’re referring to The Vision? God, artificial intelligence. You made a life, Stark! But, how shall I say this; Vision has submitted himself for appropriate experimentation. Which is to say we’ll be taking apart his brain piece by piece until we discover exactly what it is what makes him tick.”

“You can’t _do that,”_ Tony groans “he’s not a _thing,_ he’s – why would he do that, you’re lying. I’m not _sick,_ you’re all _corrupt,_ and you can’t _do this,_ not with – “

Tony slams his head against the bed again, grits his teeth with frustration and pulls with all his strength, desperate to do something, to punch Ross in the face, to kick him in the teeth, to just achieve something other that passive acceptance –

“Oh dear, you’re getting yourself worked up. I’ll call a guard.” Ross pushes Tony’s brow back down to the bed, pulls a strap over his head and buckles it tight. God, he can’t move. He strains, arches his back Ross pats him reassuringly, smiling that sickly smile.

A guard, armed only with a syringe. He depresses it into Tony’s neck. “This will calm you down,” Ross says, and he says it in slow motion, lips twisting and slipping down. “You be safe now, Mr Stark.”

He can’t move. Light is too bright and sound too loud. Everything moves slowly. Tony’s thoughts move slowly. He tells himself he’s not alone. He tells himself that there are still people who would help him, somewhere.

He figures he made his bed, and now he’s lying in it.


	2. Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've changed the title to 'Deep in December' because I don't know how to pronounce 'Pyrrhic'.
> 
> Also, I'm going to try using actual chapter titles! See, I am mildly committed to this story.

They knew Tony had been arrested. It was on the news. The reporter had cited violation of the Accords, but said she couldn’t give specifics.  
   
That was eight months ago.  
   
Since then, Wakanda has had war knocking on it’s doorstep. Steve doesn’t know what Tony told them, or how they found out, but Steve is longer guest in T’challa’s household. He’s an official asylum seeker, taking refuge from the USA. As is Sam. And Clint. And Wanda.  
   
Scott Lang never came with them. Told them he had a daughter, other duties. Steve had thanked him. He doesn’t doubt for a second that the man knows how to go underground.  
   
All these people, estranged from their home. Clint, not able to see his children, his wife. Last they heard, they were in custody. Steve can’t help but think – all of this. All of this, and just for Bucky to go back into the ice.  
   
No. No he can’t think like that. Because it was worth it. Look what happened to Tony. That would be all of them – nearly had been, in fact. Steve can understand why Tony told Ross Steve was hiding in Wakanda, but he doesn’t know how he found out. And he doesn’t know – he doesn’t know if he could forgive him, either.  
   
It’s been hard, here. So far from everything he’s ever known. There is no mission, there’s nothing to occupy him day to day. When T’challa’s around – which is rare, he has a country to run – he includes Steve in his plans, informs him of the political landscape. It’s perfunctory at best. He tells Steve he’ll mount a force, that this won’t last forever. But he reminds Steve that the UN is holding him to account for harboring terrorists, and then Steve remembers that _he’s_ the terrorist, and then they’re back at square one.  
   
Sharon. Maria. Rhodes. Potts. Laura, the kids. They’ve been in custody since – well, they’re not sure exactly. Best bet is they were taken in sometime after Tony was arrested. Steve hasn’t heard from Vision, no one’s even _seen him,_ and so Steve assumes that he’s sitting in a Tony-made cage somewhere in the Raft. That is, if he hasn’t been dismantled.  
   
And Steve? Steve just sits here.  
   
“Watching that isn’t going to make it any better you know,” Sam says dully. “That’s not gonna get them back.”  
   
The news cuts out and Steve turns off the screen. “Did you think it would come to this?”  
   
It’s not the first time Steve has asked, and it’s not the last time Sam will sigh and tell him that no, if he had known it would come to this, he would have killed Tony himself long ago.  
   
Which is strange to hear from Sam. He understands the sentiment, though. “There’s a meeting in the conference room,” Sam tells him. “You should bring yourself. T’challa’s here.”  
   
“Here?” Steve looks up, stares. “What – since when?”  
   
“Well, it’s important isn’t it?” Sam claps him on the back. “C’mon. You’ll want to hear what he has to say.”  
   
Steve feels like he’s aching, now. His muscles almost sore from disuse. It’s been ten months. Hiding doesn’t suit him. “He got a mission for us?”  
   
And a smile plays at Sam’s lips. “I don’t know, why don’t we find out?”  
   
“What, you hiding something?”  
   
Sam shrugs, making his way through clean, winding corridors. “All I’m saying is I’m not sure how to feel, so I’m gonna look at you and take it from there.”  
   
“Sam, what – “  
   
“Hi, Steve.”  
   
Natasha’s cut her hair. Short this time, close to her scalp. She’s thinner. Steve is almost shocked to see she’s _aged;_ it almost hadn’t occurred to him that she could, that she was a flesh and blood human, and that wherever she’s been and whatever she’s done, it’s changed her.  
   
“Jesus Nat,” he breathes, and he doesn’t really think about it, just folds her into a hug. “Where the hell have you been? We looked for you, after, but – where did you go? Why did you _leave?”_  
   
Natasha smiles, pulls away. “Well, you know. I’ve been around. Ukraine, mostly. It hasn’t been too long, right? Only…”  
   
“Ten months.”  
   
“Ten months, give or take a few.” She leans round Steve’s body and waves. “Hi Sam.”  
   
“I don’t know how I feel about you yet.”  
   
“Sam’s still holding a grudge,” Steve explains “he’ll get over it.”  
   
“No I won’t.”  
   
“We’re working on it.” Steve smiles, takes her shoulders. “God, you’re – I can’t believe you made it.”  
   
“Well it was tough. As you can imagine it’s not exactly _easy_ to get into Wakanda right now. But I mean, we’re all okay, right?” She turns, looks down the long conference table. “Wanda? You good?”  
   
“Better,” she says, tiredly. “Getting there. Nice to have another woman.”  
   
“And where’s my Clint?” Natasha calls “He’s here, right? I was told he was here.”  
   
Sam, Steve, Wanda: they all share a look. “He’s – yeah,” Steve says weakly. “He’s here. He’s not – doing so great, you know? They’ve got his family.”  
   
“I know. I have – information. That’s why I need to see him. Where is he?”  
   
Sam shakes his head, shrugs. “Roof? His room is up there, somewhere. He’s – he’s a private guy, you know. We see him at dinner, sometimes. Uh, he might – “  
   
“Miss Romanoff,” T’challa’s voice is smooth, light. “It is good to see you here. You’re looking well.”  
   
“Your Highness,” she says, with a little nod. “Thank you… allowing it.”  
   
T’challa shrugs. “There’s no need for those formalities, here. You should sit, all of you. We have something pressing to discuss.”  
   
“A mission?” Steve says, and it’s ridiculous how desperate he is, everyone can hear it. “I mean,” he clears his throat “if, if you want. You should continue. Yeah, you – go on.”  
   
T’challa sits at the head of the table, rests his elbows on the surface. Then, uncharacteristically, he lets his brow drop, runs his palm over his hair. “Your friend. Tony Stark. He is causing me… quite the headache.”  
   
Sam snorts. “Man, you’ve got something wrong. He’s no friend of mine.”  
   
“That may be. But there are still codes of ethics to be observed. Stark’s been imprisoned for eight months now, and far as we can see there is no official sentence. No sign of release. And every second he’s there, Stark continues to pass on potentially volatile information to the US authorities. We know now, of course, he was the one who informed them of your presence in my country,” and T’challa looks up, one fist thumping against the glass tabletop. “We suspect, now, that he has gone further. Last night, I received a warning from the UN asking me to give up James Barnes for trial or face – “  
   
“Jesus, how could he – “ Sam is incredulous “how could he even – “  
   
“There’s no love lost there,” Natasha says “Steve could tell you that. Tony’s at the edge, he hasn’t got anything to lose, he’ll tell them everything if that’s what it takes to bring you down. Don’t you see? He’s still _fighting,_ it’s a still a war for him. He’s lost his mind, and now – “  
   
“Let T’challa finish.” Steve says shortly. He doesn’t want to hear that, yet, doesn’t want the anger, the mild panic, that’s bubbling in his belly to go anywhere but in pursuit of the truth. “Or face what?”  
   
“Economic sanctions. Oh, they’re politic. I know they would hope to starve Wakanda until we’re forced to deal in our vibranium. That will never happen, of course,” T’challa snorts “Wakanda has never rested on the treaties of other countries. Yet, America still threatens war. And so.”  
   
“And you don’t know how much more Tony’s going to tell them,” Steve mutters “is that it?”  
   
“It seems to me like Stark has had informants in Wakanda for a long time,” T’chall says gravely. “So yes. I fear what he may say next.”  
   
“That doesn’t make sense,” Steve says, simply. “I’m sorry, I – I have to vouch, here. There’s no love lost between us, you’re right. But – you can’t say he was never willing to compromise, or that he didn’t have our interests at heart. I’ve had time to _think_ about this, Natasha – he let you leave, even after you helped me escape. He was willing to _work with me,_ right up until – until he saw what he saw. He didn’t come after us, when we broke out of the Raft – come on, you know it’s true! You can’t say he would just, give that up for – “  
   
“Maybe he knows he’s not getting out any other way,” Wanda says quietly. “I was in that prison for what, a week? I would have lost my mind if it was any longer.”  
   
“Right,” Steve says, bolstered. “If he’s coerced – look, don’t misunderstand me. He tried to murder Bucky, there’s no excuse for that. He put you in prison, I know. I don’t like him, I don’t _trust him;_ he’s just not a guy who capitulates easy is what I’m saying. I don’t see him dancing to Ross’s tune just at the prospect of an easy life.”  
   
“That’s because, with all due respect Steve, you don’t know him.” Clint is standing in the doorway, arms crossed. He looks like he’s been drinking, eyes purpling, nose red. “Hi, Nat.”  
   
“Hi, Clint.” She replies, voice quiet.  
   
“You don’t know Stark at all. None of do. Maybe a few of us thought we did,” he says with a pointed look at Natasha “but that wasn’t real. The man’s a sociopath. Don’t believe me? Look what happened to Rhodes. He’s all too happy to put his friends in firing line. Look at Ultron; the crazy fucking robot said it itself, it _told us_ Stark was crazy, and we ignored it. He got that kid involved at the airport. He went to Ross and the sicced the Secretary of State on us instead of talking first. The man is incapable of admitting faults, he’s so fucking _convinced_ of his superiority – “  
   
“Clint,” Steve says gently “I’m sorry, about your family. And yes, Tony has an ego. And absolutely, he’s mildly unhinged, but that doesn’t mean he’s willing to sell us out. I’m sorry,” Steve holds up his hands “I just don’t think he has it in him.”  
   
“But clearly he does,” Sam says. “And clearly he has, Steve. I mean – maybe you’re right. Maybe they’re holding Pepper over him, Rhodes. He wants to keep them safe, right? I was there, when Rhodey fell, Clint – we can all believe that when push comes to shove we’d be forced to do something we didn’t want to for the people we love.”  
   
“But the fact remains,” Clint continues “we wouldn’t fucking be here if he hadn’t sent us to war.”  
   
“We wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t killed those envoys,” Wanda says quietly. “Or if Sokovia hadn’t been dropped on a thousand heads. Or if New York hadn’t been destroyed, DC littered with rubble. You can’t blame him for trying to actually listen to what the people wanted. It’s more than we did. It’s more than I did, when I caused this.”  
   
“Who’s side are you on?” Sam snaps “You want to save Tony, now? You know that man sanctioned Ross to put you in a shock collar, right? That man would love to drown you somewhere, Wanda, don’t waste your sympathy on him.”  
   
“It’s just a point,” Wanda mumbles in reply. They need to work on that, Steve thinks. Her confidence has taken a knock.  
   
“We can argue this for hours,” T’challa puts in, eventually. “The best way is a fair trial. Stark needs to be extracted before he tells them anything more. But I can’t risk my men, and I can’t risk what America will do if Wakanda is seen to actively invade their soil and take him out ourselves. If only I had some independent agents living in my compound.”  
   
Steve raises an eyebrow. “This is it? You want me to get Stark out?”  
   
“ _Stark?”_ Clint spits “You want us to rescue _him?_ God, after – man, my kids are there! They have my children! Why the hell would you waste manpower on _Stark,_ let him fucking die for all I give a shit. Send someone in there to put him down, that’ll solve your problem, and let me go and get my kids. Please,” Clint moves forward, leans onto the table “T’challa – your highness, it’s been almost a year. I don’t know where they are, I don’t know what they’re doing. They have my wife and children, and you’ve told me we need to hold back, you won’t even let me go alone, and now you’re telling me that, just like that, we can risk it all to grab that lying, cheating, murdering, son of a bitch?”  
   
“What about Vision?” Steve asks “If we’re on the Raft…”  
   
“Please, don’t mistake this for a rescue mission. That will come in time. We’ll save Vision, and Rhodes, and everyone else caught up in Stark’s downfall. This is about sparing my people retribution for something they’ve had no part in. It’s about bringing Stark to heel, and having him answer for his crimes. Barton, I promise, when the time comes, we will save your family. And you can tell Stark exactly how you feel.”  
   
“When do you want this done?” Steve asks “Am I going solo? I’ll need gear.”  
   
“The less people, the better. We don’t want to leave a footprint.” T’challa presses a button on his watch, and a hologram rises out of the center of the table. “This is a provisionary plan for the the Raft. A first draft. Lot’s has changed since this was drawn up, obviously, but what I find interesting is this set of tunnels, here.” T’challa points at the lines running from out under the ocean into the bottom of the building. “It goes straight through solitary confinement, which – as luck would have it – is where we hear they’re holding Stark.”  
   
“Where’s the intel from?”  
   
“I own a guard who claims Stark was taken there some five months ago and hasn’t been seen since.”  
   
“And you couldn’t just ask him to smother him in his sleep?” Clint asks “That would save us a lot of trouble.”  
   
“Here in Wakanda, we believe in fair trial.”  
   
“We used to think that too, in America. But then the Accords happened.”  
   
“Clint, please,” Steve begs. “Just – stop. T’challa, when do you want this done?”  
   
“The sooner you leave the better. I can’t let you take a jet, but there is a single sub that may work and is still operational.”  
   
“And if I get caught?”  
   
“You won’t.”  
   
“But if I do.”  
   
“Don’t.”  
   
   
Clint and Natasha are arguing. He can hear it through the glass. They’re screaming, and then Clint’s throwing books. He thinks it’s about the drinking, or the fact Natasha left.  
   
This balcony over looks a garden that drops off a cliff. Still, it’s nice to be in the sun. “So you’re going back,” Wanda says, leaning over the railing. “You gonna bring me a souvenir?”  
   
Steve smiles, looks down. “You think we’ve done the right thing here?”  
   
“Meaning?”  
   
“I don’t know. Everything. If I could go back and change something – “  
   
“I know what I’d do.”  
   
Steve looks at her. “What?”  
   
“I’d tell me and Pietro not to join Nazis in the quest for revenge. I’d tell myself not to blame Tony Stark for a bomb he didn’t even design. I’d tell myself not to be naive. And then I wouldn’t – I don’t know. I wouldn’t have my powers. Ultron wouldn’t exist. The Accords, the wouldn’t have happened. That’s what I’d do.”  
   
“Wanda…”  
   
“What? Are you going to tell me I’m wrong?”  
   
“I’m going to ask you to stop blaming yourself.”  
   
“I’m not a child, Steven. I see more clearly than you.”  
   
“Oh yeah? What’s that supposed to mean?”  
   
Wanda exhales, fingers twisting over the railing. “When do you leave.”  
   
“Tomorrow. Well, technically this evening. Early hours.”  
   
“You should catch some rest.”  
   
“Can’t. Not with them,” he gestures back, through the window, where Clint and Natasha are still shouting. “Don’t think I could anyway.”  
   
“You know how to steer a sub?”  
   
“Sure, kinda. I’ll gone a while though. Getting lifted to Morocco tonight. From there it’s a straight three-day trip to the Raft.”  
   
“Be safe.”  
   
“Oh, I always make it out,” Steve grins. “And hey, we’ll have Stark. That’s gotta be worth something.”  
   
The breeze picks up slightly, pushing warm air through Steve’s hair. He’s let it grow out, so now it rests over his brow. It needs a cut, but it can wait.  
   
“Three days on the way back with him? You sure that’s going to work?”  
   
“I could always just stick a sock in his mouth tie him to a chair. It’ll be fine, Wanda.”  
   
“This time next week we could have answers.”  
   
“Yeah. We could.”  
   
“Hear him out,” Wanda says, suddenly, turning to face him. “Please. Just – try and listen to what he has to say.”  
   
“Wanda – “  
   
“You’re pigheaded, you know that? Both of you. But – you can’t afford that now, you know that. Tell me you know that.”  
   
“I don’t seek an argument with him, Wanda,” Steve says gently. “I never have.”

But Wanda is looking out, over the balcony. “If it comes to war,” she says “you’ll need him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So I lied! I said updates every Friday, but I've realised that it's really tricky for me to write big fat meaty chapters. So what I'm planning on doing is having short chapters which get updated more often. If it's a really short chapter, then you can expect more than one! There will still be big ones, when the occasion calls for it, but apart from that expect them to start getting shorter soon when the plot actually kicks in.
> 
> Anyway, feedback is still much appreciated! It's great to see that people are actually interested in what you're writing and really respond to it. Not going to lie, I find Steve the most difficult to write, so whatever you have to say is super helpful.
> 
> And yeah, please comment. Because half the time the only reason I really upload is because I seek that Validation™.


	3. Natasha

Honestly, Natasha has never felt less sure of herself.  
  
If she wasn’t who she was, she would think she’s losing her mind. But that’s not possible. Natasha can’t – she couldn’t lose her mind, she isn’t crazy. She’s cool and collected and – in control. And now she’s safe. And Clint’s here. The past eight months are, they’re – poof.  
  
She’s shown to her new quarters. T’challa does not spare expense on them, that’s for sure; a queen sized bed with silk sheets, a large balcony, fresh water, spirits, food on tap. Oh God, a  _power shower –_ she hasn’t showered in God knows when. The bathroom is stocked with every toiletry a woman could ever need, and the towels are soft and fluffy.  
  
She’s feels more human after she’s washed. She goes through the regular routine: shaves her legs, methodically and slowly. Usually, she wouldn’t bother, but Wakanda is  _warm_ and Natasha has just felt – she’s felt unclean, for a long time. This is the closest she can get to shedding skin without actually flaying herself alive. She clips her nails, plucks her brows, does just about everything she can do to forget everything that’s happened the past year.  
  
Her hair hasn’t been cut since she fled the US. It’s long, longer than it’s been since she was a teenager playing up the young virginal act. She doesn’t want to cut it herself, but she will eventually. It seems to her like her skin has aged; is she imagining the wrinkles at her eyes? It’s a strange time to get vain, that’s for sure, but she hasn’t exactly had time to think about her appearance. She hadn’t even had time to shower before she whisked to conference room, and then – Clint.  
  
Natasha does not have any problem appropriating her share of the blame. She also can’t quite understand how Clint blames her for what’s happened with Laura. She didn’t force him to take Steve’s side. And – God, that sounds heartless. Of course she misses the kids, of course she – Jesus, Laura, locked up for all this time. That’s not what she wants, that was never – it’s not her fault. Does Clint have a right to be angry that she disappeared? Sure. If she had known that Steve was just going to break them all out of the Raft anyway, she would have turned herself in. But Natasha places faith in herself above all else and, as it is, she’s lucky Tony let her leave when he did.  
  
Although he really drew the short straw there. Natasha walks out onto the balcony to let her hair dry. The sun is setting, and heat is manageable.  
  
It’s been a shit year.  
  
  
For all her experience, Natasha doesn’t exactly have many contacts who are willing to, well, keep in contact. She has money ferreted away but it wasn’t much; certainly not enough to see her through permanent hiding and, as it is, she gave all but one of them up when she signed the Accords. Oh sure, there are ways of getting money if you’re clever enough, but Natasha was planning on keeping on the straight and narrow. Steve had gone off the deep-end with Bucky; whether he knew it or not, he wouldn’t risk him for Natasha, not in a million years. And so, for the first time in a long time, she’d found herself alone, no SHIELD, no Coulson, Clint, Nick, anyone at all. Even Tony was a no-go, and she couldn’t picture him helping her after what he did.  
  
She’d wanted to go back, after she heard about Tony’s arrest. And Rhodey, and Pepper, and Vision. Laura and the kids. She had been hoping to make her way to Honduras; last she heard, Fury was holed up somewhere in a slum. But after that, she knew two people in one place is too risky. And so she turned, caught a boat, and had played wife to the Captain until they reached Hawaii. Still too fucking risky; she commandeered her own sub – a shitty old thing she got by the grace of God and her only contact on the whole damn island – and had headed east until she hit land, any land.  
  
She ended up in Vietnam. Good enough.  
  
After that, it was a matter of moving east. Just keep going until you reach Africa, and from there, Wakanda. She was the world’s most wanted list, it wasn’t fucking easy. Clint seems to be under the impression she had a grand old time traversing the Middle East with no money, food, or weapons while he sat in the lap of fucking luxury. Natasha had almost –  _almost –_ forgotten what it was like to live from day to day with no security, no plan for the future. If she’s really honest –  
  
If she’s really honest, she lost a bit of herself all over again, out there in the wilderness. And she’s determined not to let it happen again.  
  
  
It’s Sam who knocks on her door some hours later. “You decent?” He asks. Natasha has missed him, honestly. She’s missed all of them, the people she came to consider as friends. “Come on in,” she calls, setting aside the magazine. “It’s not like you haven’t seen it before.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Sam quietly shuts the door behind him “it’s about the, uh, the,  _appearance_ of civility, am I right?”  
  
“You sound like Vision.”  
  
“Poor fucker. Yeah, we here they’ve had him up in the Raft since they took Stark. I can’t imagine what they’re doing to him – say what you want, that guy’s innocent. Guy? That – honestly I never know what to call him.”  
  
“He shot Rhodes.”  
  
Sam stiffens slightly. “Yeah, well. He was aiming for me.”  
  
Natasha rolls her eyes. “God, not you too.”  
  
“Not me what?”  
  
“Blaming yourself. Everyone’s blaming themselves for – it’s not your fault, how could it be your fault?”  
  
“Nat, you’ve – you’ve been gone awhile, you know? I’ve had some time to mull it over.”  
  
“And who do you blame?”  
  
“Stark,” Sam says darkly “I blame Stark.”  
  
“And not me?”  
  
“You didn’t – no. You helped Steve escape. That’s even stevens in my book.”  
  
“What happened?” Natasha asks quietly. “After I left? I saw Tony on the news. He looked like he’d been hit by a truck.”  
  
“He came to find me in the Raft, said he believed that Bucky was innocent. Me – like an idiot – believed him. Told him Steve had gone up to an old facility in Siberia. He – when he got there, he turns on them.”  
  
Natasha furrows her brow. “On – on Steve? And Bucky? Sam, that doesn’t sound like him.”  
  
“Yeah well Steve said he had a lot of rage,” Sam mutters. “I mean – there was something else.”  
  
Natasha sits up. “Oh yeah?”  
  
“This guy, Zemo. He shows… he shows them some footage, right?”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“It’s of Tony’s parents, the night they died. And I mean – it shows Bucky doing it.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“But Tony went crazy. Tried to kill Barnes,  _ripped off his arm._ Even after he knew that Barnes was brainwashed, I mean – he fucking lost it. If he could have held it together he would be here now, you know that? They could have all got away together, put the Accords behind us. But he didn’t. And I don’t think he ever meant to, either. I shouldn’t have trusted him,” Sam growls “but I thought – hey, he used to be friends with Steve, right? You don’t just throw all of that away out of – out of petty vengeance.”  
  
“That… that doesn’t sound like him,” Natasha agrees “I mean, that he would want to avenge his parents, it’s – I was never under the impression they were close.”  
  
“Yeah well neither was he until it was convenient.”  
  
Natasha nods. Maybe. Maybe she doesn’t know Tony as well as she thought she did, maybe Clint’s right. He is his father’s son, after all, and Natasha remembers reading his file long ago. Howard Stark was a hard man; maybe age does that to them.  
  
Still, she doesn’t know how to feel. Anger, slightly. She signed up for the Accords, just like Tony. Then again, Tony let her go without a fight. Which means she owes him. In fact, it doesn’t matter what Sam or Clint think of him: Natasha definitely owes him. No matter how angry she might be.  And that fucking –  
  
She doesn’t like owing people.”  
  
“ – about you, anyway,” Sam asks, and Natasha jerks. Had he been talking. She blinks, looks up. “What about what?”  
  
“What have you been doing, where’ve you been,” Sam picks up her magazine and flicks lazily through the pages “seen anything fun?”  
  
“It’s been shit, actually.”  
  
“Yeah that’s what I thought. Big old pile of shit,” Sam mutters, blowing a raspberry. “But hey, could be worse. At least we’re safe and relatively free.”  
  
“Where’s Barnes?” Natasha interrupts “Where’s he gone? Is he – I mean, did he leave? Has he gone under again? Because after all that Steve better not have – “  
  
“Barnes is here.”  
  
“Where?”  
  
Sam is silent for a moment. He seems to consider. “He went back into. Uh. The freezer.”  
  
Natasha blinks. “Steve put him back in the icebox?”  
  
“I think it was more voluntary.”  
  
“After  _all that?!”_  
  
“What does it matter? Barnes is safe. Steve is happy with that. At least he’s not up for execution.” Sam sounds unconvinced by his own words, and Natasha snorts.  
  
“Is this what we broke apart over? And what if Barnes never gets better? What if he spends the rest of Steve’s life in a freezer? Will it have been worth it then? I – God, Sam,” Natasha sucks her bottom lip “if I had known,” she says lowly “if I had known Steve was going to do what he did, I wouldn’t have helped him escape.”  
  
And now Sam is looking at her with something akin to disgust. “You would have turned Barnes in? You would have let him die?”  
  
“Would I have let one man – who arguably –  _arguably! –_ is responsible for some of the greatest crimes in history, live if it meant tearing apart the only – tearing apart something good, and solid? And then having that man spend the rest of his life in a container anyway? No. Sorry, no. The benefits don’t outweigh the doubts, there. Jesus, Sam,” Natasha mutters “if – “  
  
“So you think none of this was worth it, huh?” Sam is cold, distant. Natasha thinks something might have happened to him; she doesn’t know what, but he doesn’t seem – he doesn’t seem right, anymore.  
  
“I think it was the most fucking selfish thing I’ve ever seen anyone do,” Natasha blurts, and she can’t believe how much vehemence she feels, because she isn’t angry with Steve, not really, but it doesn’t change the truth. “You don’t understand. You’re new to this. I had a good thing with the Avengers, Sam, a good fucking thing. So did Clint. Tony bitched, but so did he, and Bruce – “ Natasha sucks in her cheek “it was safe, you know? Almost like a family. The Accords wouldn’t have changed that, Sam. No one would be in prison. Wakanda wouldn’t be on the brink of war, I’d have – to let go of that. To let go of everything we’d worked for… it’s a fucking insult. An insult to Phil’s memory, and insult to me, to every person who ever even  _believed_ the Avengers were something good, and – and I can fucking understand why Tony was angry, okay?” She snaps “Because if I had sunk so much  _time,_ and  _money,_ and  _effort,_ if I’d given up all chance of a steady relationship and a nice, normal, family life for this  _team_ and then Steve uprooted it all for a man who – Steve was a part of it, once,” she finishes, bluntly. “I thought he was family. We were all wrong.”  
  
Sam is sullen. Natasha bites her lip. “Sorry,” she says eventually “I didn’t – mean to take it out on you.”  
  
“You didn’t lose anything,” Sam says eventually. “Don’t make this about you.”  
  
“I’m not making this about – “  
  
“Whatever, Natasha,” Sam stands, rubs the back of his head. “You know, I’m – I’m glad you’re okay. A lot of people, they don’t get to say that. They all had to follow through.”  
  
“Excuse me?” Natasha blinks “Are you – are you  _angry_ at me? For helping Steve? For throwing my fucking freedom away?”  
  
Sam shrugs. “I don’t know. Steve trusts you, doesn’t he? But you know – like I said. You don’t follow through.” He leaves, then, and that sticks a bitter taste in her mouth; he doesn’t even give her a chance to say the last word.  
  
  
Natasha doesn’t know; is Sam right? Maybe – maybe he’s right. Or maybe he’s not, and he’s fucking damaged, like the rest of them. Maybe he’s dissatisfied with how things turned out, and he’s resentful Natasha got away. Maybe he’s mildly – just mildly – furious that he risked life and limb for Steve Roger’s best war buddy and all he got for it was exile and said buddy being put back under anyway. At least, that what Natasha thinks; she reckons she would be pissed too.  
  
She doesn’t want to think about Sam, even though it worries her. She doesn’t want to think about Steve, who she barely had time to talk to before he ran off to bring Tony in. Is she self-absorbed? Natasha doesn’t think so. Although it wouldn’t kill her to be, once in a while. That was trained out of her long ago.  
  
No; the real problem is that Natasha has started having nightmares for the first time in twenty years.  
  
She’s never – felt like this. And now, she fears sleep.  
  
  
She’s awoken by another knocking at her door; she’s jarred from dreams about faceless men with knives and metal beds. She’s sweating, but then, it is very hot. “Come in,” she croaks, pulling the blanket over her shoulders.  
  
A smiling woman with thick, curled hair opens the door, carrying a tray. “Good morning, Miss Romanoff. Did you sleep well?”  
  
Natasha blinks. “Hi,” she says “is this – “  
  
“Breakfast,” the woman clarifies. “You’ve overslept.”  
  
“Oh,” Natasha says uneasily. She is unused to being served. “You didn’t have to – “  
  
The woman sets the tray down on the table, opens the balcony doors; the gauzy curtains float in the morning air. “It’s my job,” she says simply in accented English.  
  
“Are there many of you? Working here, I mean.” Natasha slips her feet off the bed and lets them rest on the cool tile. “I didn’t see anyone.”  
  
“Only the most trusted, now.”  
  
“I see. And – what was your name, again?”  
  
“I didn’t say. Temi.”  
  
“Temi,” Natasha says, trying it over. “That’s – thank you. For breakfast.”  
  
“Your welcome. We no longer do a midday meal – your friends are never hungry in the heat, but dinner is served at five. Other than that, if you need anything, you only have to ask.”  
  
“I – that’s fine,” Natasha winces at the sunlight. “It looks great. Thanks.”  
  
Temi smiles again, warm, and leaves. She shuts the door softly behind her. Natasha stands, and looks at her breakfast; eggs, toast, orange juice and bacon. Very nice. Simple, and filling. She takes it out onto the balcony.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay im really tired but here. rescue chapter next. please comment, good night.


	4. Tony

They had brought the kid in about a month after Tony was arrested. He knows this, because they’d taken him off the drugs and stopped strapping him to the table.  
  
At first, he’d panicked; he’d thought it was Peter Parker. They put him in the cell opposite Tony, and he’s not sure if that’s because the kid is psychologically imbalanced, or they just wanted Tony to see him, or if maybe, somehow, every other cell in this place is filled up. Tony finds that unlikely, but still: nothing’s beyond Ross now.  
  
Tony had stood by the window, disheveled, while they dumped the kid on the bed. He hadn’t struggled. When they left, he’d raised one hand, as if in greeting. Tony had blinked, and done the same.  
  
He was tall, skinny, and completely bald. Which was weird to look at, because he couldn’t be older than – twenty-five  _at least;_ he’s almost definitely younger. He spends the days flicking through books they’ve given him (maybe his crimes aren’t as severe as Tony’s) and smearing his food on the wall in obscene patterns.  
  
  
Ross had made Tony’s purpose clear: he was there to indict Wakanda, and if he wasn’t going to do it voluntarily, they would make him.  
  
Every day, the guards would take him from his cell for interrogation. This was mostly harmless; tall men in suits would shout at him, slam their fists on the table. They tried making him vulnerable, keeping the lights on, cutting down his food, his water, disallowing toilet breaks and taking away his blanket; it didn’t work. It made him weary, tired, mentally frayed, but no. No, it never made him come even close to signing his name to the document that threatened to start World War 3.  
  
The men ask him if Steve is hiding in Wakanda, and Tony says he doesn’t know. They ask him if Barnes is with him, and Tony says he doesn’t know. They don’t explicitly say it – and Tony has no idea what’s going on outside this prison – but he suspects they need his signature as evidence, or proof, some kind of justification to launch war. Well, ha! Fuck them, because they won’t get it. T’challa, Tony will accept, was in innocent in all of this, losing his father, inheriting a country, Tony sort of understands that, maybe. And Steve –  
  
Tony doesn’t owe Steve shit. But if – but if maybe, he does happen to be in Wakanda, and Tony’s doing him a favor by helping out, well then. That’s that.  
  
One day, about four months in – four months of traumatizing sitting around and doing nothing all day – Ross comes in waving around some paper. And he’s grinning triumphantly from ear to ear. “You sure you don’t want to sign?” He asks.  
  
Tony hadn’t gotten up from his pallet, just stared straight ahead. “Yes,” he’d said shortly.  
  
“You really sure about that? Because – because Tony, we just got authorization to step up our game. Do you know what that means?”  
  
Tony had let his eyes close, and said nothing.  
  
“Listen, Stark,” and Ross’s voice had been low, he’d crouched right beside Tony’s face and spit bluntly. “You think I’m a sociopath, but I can assure you I’m not. I don’t get pleasure from hurting you, or – well, watching someone else hurt you. But I’ll tell you what I do want: I want every single super-powered individual locked up or under control and you, you are my number one block against that, understand?” Ross had stood “And I thought we were on the same side.”  
  
Tony hadn’t said anything, but he’d felt the anxiety tightening in his gut. His palms started to sweat. He’d watched as the guards came for him, hooked his arms and dragged him from his bed. He’d tried to struggle; one of them smashed the back of his head with a baton.  
  
The kid banged on the window as they dragged him past; “Hey!” He screamed “Hey you can’t fucking do that! This is the US you cunts you can’t torture people – “  
  
They’d ignored him.  
  
  
After, they’d brought Tony back to his cell, exhausted and shivering. He had wished, more than anything, for a blanket, something to keep out the chill of the water and the numbness from the current. His throat felt raw, and the dinner they had left him was nothing but bread and cheese.  
  
He’d eaten it tiredly, sitting against the wall, dizzy. He’d heard a banging and looked up.  
  
The kid was pointing proudly to smeared tomato sauce on the the glass of his cell;  _FUCK THEM!_ Tony had snorted, smiled weakly, and folded his cheese between the bread. The kid underlined the message pointedly with some type of yoghurt. Sometime after that, they moved Tony to solitary.  
  
  
The jury in his head is back. Tony begs them.  _You have to understand,_ he says,  _you have to understand what they’re doing to me. It’s killing me, I can’t take it. They do things I – I don’t want to talk about, to think about. Please, you can’t blame me._  
  
And jury always replies that stronger men would hold out better, longer. There are men out there, they say pointedly, who have never wavered in their convictions, even when they’re wrong.  
  
When it happens, it’s not by choice. But it only took two months for his body to make the decision for him.  
  
“Yes!” He’d screamed “Yes! He’s in Wakanda, oh please, yes, yes, they’re all there, they’re all hiding, please,” his head had hit the wall, eyes slipped shut with exhaustion. “Please,” he’d mumbled again “they’re there, everyone’s there, everyone you need,” he’d wheezed, coughed, and blood had dribbled from his lips.  
  
They’d taken him to a clean room and sat him at a stainless steel desk. After so much dark, the light is too bright, and Tony can’t even see the paper they put in front of him. The pen looks so clean in his grubby hand. When the time comes, he can’t even write it; his head keeps lolling forward, the pen slipping off the page. He’s shaking, and he tells his jury that he had no choice. The guards tell him to stop talking to himself and sign the damn document.  
  
Eventually, one of the grunts and guides his hand over the page:  _Anthony Edward Stark,_ in shaky black ink. Tony can barely remember what he’s signing. He asks if he can have some water, and to his surprise, someone fills him a little plastic cup.  
  
He had thought maybe they would execute him, then. He’d been wrong. They hadn’t even started.  
  
  
Tony hates himself for everything he knows. For everything that can be taken from his head and put to paper and recorded for future use. Months go by, but he doesn’t know how many. They ask questions, Tony screams replies. He senses they’re losing interest him as the conditions he’s kept in start to deteriorate; maybe they’re genuinely starting to forget he exists. They bring him food sometimes, water even less. Toilet breaks are so few and far between that sometimes Tony has no choice but to –  
  
He has forgotten there’s an outside world. Nothing exists except this. Occasionally, he’ll remember Pepper, Rhodey, and Vision, and those thoughts will take over his mind for awhile before they break apart again.  
  
In his rare lucid moments, Tony thinks the electricity has damaged his brain. He thinks – that happens, doesn’t it? It scrambles your brain. Or maybe it’s because he hasn’t seen sunlight in what feels like years, and he hasn’t talked to anyone in months. That could also be it.  
  
Tony suspects it’s become more of a game when it’s Kevin standing in front of him, grinning down like the Cheshire cat. “You know,” he’d said, and Tony had only just managed to crack open his eyes “there’s a facility down in Massachusetts that still uses electroshocks are a method of correction.” Kevin had crouched, fluidly, and pressed a hand to Tony’s pulse. “What do you think?” He’d asked “Is it working?”  
  
“Water,” Tony had croaked in response. It was all he could manage.  
  
“We were thinking,” Kevin said, taking Tony by the wrist and dragging him up. “It’s time you continued your treatment, you know? God, you’ve been so helpful, Tony. You’re really on the up and up.”  
  
Tony had floundered, and then fallen, against Kevin’s chest, knees giving out. Kevin held him up, still grinning. “Are you feeling better, d’ya think? Has this time given you a nice, quiet, period of reflection? I’m not even supposed to be here, you know; I was going to be transferred to Germany. But I just begged Ross to let me continue your treatment, Tony, I know there’s so much  _potential_ in that big brain of yours. We’ve just got to let it out, okay? Christ, you smell, can’t you just stand?” Kevin lets go sadistically, letting Tony tumble to the ground.  


“God, we’re going to have so much  _fun,”_ he smiles, looking down at Tony with a look akin to a cat that just slaughtered a bird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to post this because I'm making good time with these chapters. Also when I say posting day is friday, I mean you'll definitely get a new chapter on Fridays, but I might update in between too.
> 
> Anyway, loving your comments, please keep it up!


	5. Steve

Steve had been angry. This hadn’t been what he expected.

Tony had had tunnels scoped in under the rock. The solitary cells, as luck would have it, are buried deep under the ocean, deep enough that Steve worried the submarine might not make it. As far as they know, this tunnel is off the record, not connected to anything in the mainframe, completely invisible. Tony would have built it with his bare hands.

And now.

“Tony?” He asks, voice low. “Hey, Stark.”

Tony wheezes, chest rising and falling with the strain of it. He mumbles something in response, or maybe just to himself. And he’s strapped to a chair, naked, hands on the armrests and slumped forward, like he can’t hold himself, like –

The room stinks of waste; Steve remembers the raft. It had been awful, but clinical. Never dirty, and no one had mentioned interrogation. No had mentioned torture. Steve hadn’t thought about it, had never considered the possibility, and if someone like Sam can escape without enhanced methods then surely someone as prolific as Tony would be spared? God, the smell is awful. Sweat and shit and piss. Steve doesn’t gag, by force of will, but he feels like it’s stuck to his clothes, to the leather of his supple gloves. He steps forward and his foot slips in it, and Jesus, oh _Christ,_ they haven’t moved him from this chair in _days_ this means, or more than that, weeks, months.

Fumbling, Steve palms out his phone, uses the screen to light the room. He hadn’t thought to bring a torch, why would he, and like this Steve can make out more than an outline, he can see bruises, and scars, and – don’t look there, don’t look, _don’t._ There are wires tacked onto Tony’s chest, one on each hand, on his feet, two on each calf and even his scrotum. Steve can’t look. His overwhelming desire is to turn and run. He didn’t want it to be this way. He never wanted him to suffer like this. No one deserves it, no matter what they do. Tony was supposed to be angry, and they would travel back in stony silence, and then everyone would hold him to account, would try to determine _why_ he told the Government the Avengers were hiding in Wakanda, _why_ he’s trying to start World War III, but Steve sees why now because he’s human, and Steve doesn’t know how any human could take –

Tony coughs, a phlegmy, brittle thing. Steve brings up the light and almost recoils; Tony’s eyes are open. For a moment, he’s convinced he’s dead, but then his brain engages. Tony is watching him. He’s been watching him the whole time.

“Stark,” Steve whispers, and his hands tug at the straps on his arm “Stark I’m getting you out.”

Tony doesn’t say anything, just regards him dully. He mutters under his breath, and Steve can’t make it out. He fishes a knife out of his pack to cut at the bonds and doesn’t stumble when Tony recoils.

“Easy,” Steve says, trying to be soothing but moving with urgency. “We don’t have long, understand? They’ll realise I’ve looped the camera soon enough – we have two minutes, tops. Can you stand? Stark, listen to me: can you stand?”

Tony’s head lolls back, boneless, and Steve grunts with frustration. He tugs Tony’s arms free, tries to pull him to his body, but to his horror – _disgust –_ Tony is half stuck with the blood and other things. God, he’s so – his fingers curl, loosely, in Steve’s uniform, maybe trying to hold himself up. His legs scrabble on the floor, his bare feet on the filthy ground, and he tries to support his weight but he’s shaky like a colt, God knows the last time he stood let alone walked, and Steve doesn’t have time for this –

He sweeps him up onto his shoulder. Not dignified, not painless, but Steve needs his hands free and they don’t have time, now. He’s already starting to panic about how they’re going to get back to Wakanda. This was wrong, this was bad. To risk everything, over one man, the one man who _caused it,_ what was he thinking, why did T’challa think this was a good idea? Steve debates, briefly. He asks himself if he should leave him, drop him here and run before it’s too late.

But that was never in his nature. Tony has to stand trial for what he’s done, somewhere fair. And Steve is not cruel enough to leave him here.

So he runs. The alarms start to blare. Down the chute, and he uses his elbows to soften the fall, wincing as the skin is rubbed clean off the metal walls. He wonders why Tony had these escape tunnels built in the first place, and decides to question it another time. He feels the building shudder with an earth-shattering thud; lockdown.

He hits the floor. Steve is not overly concerned about being found, he’s more worried as to how exactly he’s going to get Tony to the boat. He hadn’t planned this, hadn’t expected it. Tony had always been fit; he was supposed to be able to manage the swim to the sub. Steve had even factored for a small amount of muscle loss, but nothing like this. The emergency lights cast the metal tunnel in red, and Steve can hear bangings, thuds. He reminds himself it’s water pressure, that they are not followed, and if they were he’d be able to see them coming down the chute.

There isn’t much room to turn, but Steve manages to set Tony on the floor. Time is still of the essence, and he doesn’t have time to do a full body check. Still, he wraps Tony in the Kevlar overshirt of his uniform. He wonders if Tony knows what’s happening; he wonders if he knows who he is.

“Hey,” Steve murmurs, urgent. “Tony, can you hear me? Do you understand me?”

He’s out cold, now. Steve rubs the back of his head, considers their options. “Shit,” he hisses, and Tony’s brow furrows, he groans, softly. Steve picks him up once more, cradles him in his arms, and crouches as he makes his way through the tunnel. Steve will have to swim with him to the sub and hope he doesn’t _breathe_ on the way.

 

He slams the hatch in the outer containment shut, and it’s a one minute wait as the water quickly filters back out into the ocean, freezing, frigid; Jesus fucking Christ, that’s cold. Steve is shivering so hard his grip on Tony slips and he falls the metal floor, shaking in a pool of water. Steve has to grit his teeth and pick him up once more, carrying over his shoulder so he can twist open the heavy duty door into the sub proper.

He dumps Tony on one of the bunks in the control room. It’s better here, he can keep an eye on him, watch out in case he goes into shock, or wakes up, or – worse. He sets the steering to automatic – T’challa told him it’ll adjust for pressure, or unexpected obstacles. Steve wouldn’t have the first fucking clue how to actually drive one of these himself – he can just about handle the quinjets, and it’s not like Tony would be of help.

He’s not as skinny as Steve thought; he’s lost weight, sure, but his muscle mass is – for the most part – in tact. Maybe he’s healthy. Maybe it’s not as bad as it seems. Maybe they haven’t been – torturing him, for that long. It could still be okay. Steve boils hot water; the empty container he’s set out vibrating with the ship’s movement. This could be okay. This could still be okay.

He collects the first aid kit, a sponge, an old uniform he found in the back closet of the bunks. Carefully, he washes any of the – mess, that hadn’t been taken by the ocean. He dabs ointment on Tony’s numerous bruises, iodine on the worst of the open wounds (of which there aren’t many). In fact, his worst marks are those burns left by the electrical tabs they’d stuck to his skin; the flesh there is singed a dark, scabbing red. Steve bandages the ones on his chest (there are so many of them) and the ones on his stomach. For fingers, scrotum, and toes, Steve simply smears them in cream and leaves them be.

There’s an especially old wound, too; Tony’s nose is crooked. Steve thinks he might have done that. He wonders why Tony hadn’t got it fixed, and then realizes that he probably hadn’t had time since he was arrested.

Steve debates on whether he should try and force Tony into the jumpsuit, but he doesn’t want to hurt him. So instead, he pulls the thin blanket up and over his chest, covers him completely. Then, he makes himself some dinner, setting a plate aside for Tony. He sits at the Captain’s chair, eating his ready-made spaghetti, and letting guilt eat him.

Not that he has reason to be guilty; not – not technically. It’s not his fault Tony was arrested, and it’s not his fault Tony spilled on Wakanda. Would Steve have done the same in that situation? Hard to tell. Probably not, but – but Steve was different, not just from Tony, but from anyone. He handles pain differently, and he’s stubborn.

Of course, if Steve wasn’t stubborn, they probably wouldn’t be here.

Alternatively, they could all be locked in the Raft. Ross was quick to turn on Tony, that’s for sure; God knows how long it would have taken before he’d snapped and had Steve, Sam, Nat, Wanda and the rest of them imprisoned on dubious grounds and carted off for interrogation. And Christ, if this is what they could do to Tony…

He spins, meaning to help himself to another sachet of dinner. But Tony’s eyes are open, and he’s curled on his side, watching him. Steve blinks.

“You should have told me you were awake,” he says levelly.

Tony’s eyes are tired. The left one keeps closing shut, as if he can barely keep them open. His mouth is slack. “Where’re we?” He slurs.

Steve’s brain kicks into gear. “Submarine. On the way to Wakanda. So – so you can stand trial.”

Tony’s brow furrows, and then he’s sick over the side of the bed.

“Shit,” Steve mutters, and he manages to drag himself up, tries to be disgusted, reminds himself that this is Tony calling in his favor, really, and – look at him, he’s shaking like a leaf, half hanging off the bunk. Steve huffs and covers the vomit with a towel. “Here,” he says, and he’s surprised by how gentle he sounds “take another pillow.”

“Are they going to kill me?” Tony croaks, and his fingers wrap themselves around Steve’s wrist. “Cap – cap, is this – an execution?”

Steve stares at him for a long while. “No,” he says eventually, disentangling himself. “No, that won’t – I don’t know, what’s going to happen,” he admits “all T’challa told me is there would be trial.”

“A trial?” Tony whispers “For what?”

“For you?”

“Because – why?”

“Because – because you told Ross where I was,” Steve says measuredly, and he’s not angry, not really, more just – saddened, because he can see, and anyone can see, that whatever they got from Tony they got from torture. He has a sudden desire to reassure him. “But they’ll know,” he says “they’ll know that – you weren’t willing.”

“Tell them I’m sorry.”

“You can tell them yourse – “ Tony’s eyes are wide, almost beguiling; Steve relents. “Sure,” he says “I will.”

Tony is trying to push himself up into a seated position, so Steve pushes him forward gently, helps him rest his back against the wall of the bunk. “I didn’t do it on – on purpose,” Tony manages to get out. “You know I didn’t – didn’t tell them anything, willingly, I didn’t even know half the time, I was – what year is it? How long was I – “

“It’s – it’s June, Tony. Early June, 2017.”

“What?” Tony croaks, and his head hits the metal wall. “I – “ his words are mashing together, unfocused. Steve worries he’s going to vomit again. “No no, tha’ s’not right. It – it wasn’t even – the time doesn’t make sense, it doesn’t – “

“You were gone – just nine months.”

Tony curls his legs beneath him, covers himself with the blanket. He’s still shivering. “You hate me. They all hate me. I took – they took Pepper, and Rhodey, and Vision. They won’t tell me where they’ve gone, and – Clint, they had his kids, they _talked_ about them. And – Maria too. Sharon,” Tony says shamefully “everyone. They all – “ his hand tightens on the metal railing of the bunk “you were right, weren’t you, you were fucking right, I didn’t, Ross took them, and I signed them over for – for murder, and, and they’ll hurt – “

“Murder?” Steve says urgently, because he doesn’t trust Tony’s mental capacities and he can see he’s having trouble even processing. “Jesus, Tony are they all _dead?”_

Tony stares at him, blinks. “What?” He asks “Are they – they’re dead?”

“No, I’m asking you.”

He trembles. “Why would they be dead? Are they dead, is everyone dead? Did I, have they all – “

“You said you signed them over for murder, Tony.”

Tony blinks. He looks so confused. “I – no. No, no one’s dead, I don’t think – I don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t know anything. They don’t tell me anything, I don’t – don’t ask me. Just – “ Tony shuts his eyes, like he can’t bear to look at Steve directly. “Don’t take me back there,” he whispers “please don’t.”

“Tony,” Steve says uneasily. “It’s not up to me.”

“They hate me, don’t they? All of them, I’ve – ruined their lives. Steve – this is my favor. I’m calling in my favor. Please, drop me off on, on land and I’ll disappear. I just,” Tony’s voice takes on a thick, throaty quality “drown me, I don’t care. I can’t face them, don’t make me face them.”

“Tony I knew wouldn’t care what other people thought of him,” Steve says, trying to sound encouraging.

“You never knew me,” Tony replies bluntly, but without fire. He sounds exhausted.

Silence, then. “You hungry?” Steve asks eventually, voice flat. “I can mix you something up.”

Tony lifts his head slightly. “No, no,” he mumbles “I’m fine. I’ve – eaten already. I just – are there clothes?”

Steve pulls out the old jumpsuit from under the bed. “Here,” he says, and he pushes maybe a bit too hard against Tony’s chest. “This is all I have.”

Tony tries to smile in what Steve imagines he thinks is gratefulness, but it comes out strained. He slowly, achingly, pushes each leg into the grey suit and zips himself up. Steve doesn’t have any socks, or underwear, but there are some plastic wraps he can put on his feet, the kind that are meant to go over shoes. “It’s not much,” Steve says awkwardly “we expected you – we expected more.”

Tony is twisting his fingers round his hands nervously. “No no, that’s – that’s okay. You – you weren’t to know.” Tony pauses, and looks up. “I mean – you didn’t know, right?”

“Right, what?”

“That I – “ Tony clears his throat “What they were doing to me.”

Steve answers honestly. “No.” He says “We didn’t.”

“That’s – okay I guess,” Tony mumbles. He tucks his feet back under himself, rests back against the wall, clasps his hands in front of him in what looks like an active effort to stop himself from fidgeting. “Ignore what I said, about, uh. Not taking me back, that was – it was cowardly. Just pretend it didn’t happen.”

Steve nods, and Tony goes up slightly in his estimation. “It’s alright. You’re – allowed to be scared.”

“Not scared, I don’t think – “ Tony doesn’t finish the thought. Steve guesses they don’t really have that kind of relationship anymore.

“Well, that’s it,” Steve says, and he claps his hands. Tony jerks slightly, and watches him warily. “Sorry,” he adds “I mean – this is it, now. The Accords are finished. Now that we’ve got you, we’ll be able to see if we can mount a team, you know? Sort this out. We’ll get Rhodey and Pepper and the rest of them, and – “

“I don’t agree,” Tony says, quietly.

Steve blinks, wavers. “What?”

“I don’t – agree. With you.”

“About – what?”

Tony’s hands are fidgeting again. “I don’t think – the Accords are done,” he says weakly. “I just think – if we could start again, do it right this time – “

“And you’ve had a lot of time to think, huh?” Steve says flatly. He can feel – what is it, anger? Irritation? Something is making his eye twitch. “You spend nine months in a dark cell, Ross takes your family, your friends, and _you think,_ oh, well, I can make a go of this again?”

Tony is staring at him. He pauses, and then starts again. “I just think – “

“You just think what?” Steve spits, hand cutting through the air. “Is that all you can say? Is that still what you think? _You don’t agree?_ How can’t you agree? How can’t you?”

Tony is just staring at him, open mouthed, eyes wide. “I didn’t. I mean. It was. It was. It – it – “

“You don’t _get_ a do over, Stark,” and Steve hadn’t even realised he’d stood up “You don’t get to press a button and make this go away, understand? I didn’t fucking do anything after Ultron – none of us did – when by all means you should have been in a prison cell, or house arrest, or _somewhere_ you couldn’t fucking hurt anyone else. And you come along with your Accords, and tell us it’s the next great cure, and guess what, Tony, guess what, _it wasn’t._ Because what did I fucking – we said it. We all said it. We _told you_ that Ross couldn’t be trusted, and people have agendas, but God, no, that’s not enough for Tony Stark, that’s not enough for the _futurist,”_ Steve didn’t realise, but he’s thrown the empty bowl of what was his dinner at the metal wall “and now look where we are, Tony. Tony, look. You could have a chance to make it right – really make it right. Tony, please,” and now Steve is half begging “Don’t be stubborn, you don’t have to be. Please, Tony.”

Tony blinks rapidly. “A – a hundred, a hundred and – and – lot’s of, lot’s of countries, they, they all signed, all want – wanted account – accountability, and,” Tony stumbles through his words “and that’s – it’s on us, it’s not on them, it’s – that’s a lot of countries, a lot of people, we don’t, we don’t, we aren’t – “

“Yeah, Tony, yeah I know. You think I don’t fucking know that, you think I don’t – I’m not saying we can’t have, have some kind of sustainable solution. But crawling into bed with Ross, to make better your own damn sins… Sovokia wouldn’t have happened, Tony. It shouldn’t have happened.”

Steve’s pulse is beating hard in his throat; he doesn’t want to do this, not now. Not when Tony is clearly running himself in circles trying to think of answers and is obviously too exhausted to even hear what he’s saying. The sub is vibrating lowly around them, the steady thrum of water against the metal casing. They sit in silence.

“All I’m saying,” Tony mumbles “is that – okay. I know I was stupid, I know, I know. But – you didn’t even listen, Steve. You wouldn’t even talk to me for more than a minute. If – if you just would have let me – “

“What?” Steve snaps “Convert me? Make me see it your way?”

Tony runs his hand through his hair, which Steve sees is greying at the roots. “No, no,” he mutters, and twists his fingers round each other. “Just – come to a solution, a problem fixer, a, a one-stop answer, and – and I knew all of this, I knew it wasn’t perfect from the start, but Ross was gonna do it by force anyway, then you all would have been, been in the cells. I wanted to help you,” he finishes quietly. “I didn’t want this.”

“And where did it leave you?” Steve spits, with a vitriol that shocks him. “Huh? You, in a cell, with not a single person left caring if you lived or died. You wanna talk about how I split up your family, your _team,_ well. Ask yourself why they’re with me, and you were in the cell. Ask yourself if you ever had them in the first place.”

Tony doesn’t meet Steve’s eye. “Please don’t shout,” he mumbles, eventually.

The fight goes out of Steve. He feels ill, physically. Ill that he would say those things, sick that Tony is still shivering with the cold of the ocean and he has burns on his chest and he can’t look anyone in the eye. “Look,” Steve says “look, I’m – that wasn’t right. Fuck, Tony, I shouldn’t have said that, you’re – you’re clearly not in any state to fight. I just – you know, I’ve been imagining this for a long time. And in my head…” Steve swallows “in my head, you were okay. And we would fight, but you would forgive me. And I would forgive you. And I think – “ Steve almost says he feels guilty. He almost says that there’s a guilt eating his way up his belly, because Steve left, left Tony there, in America, and let him pay for ‘crimes’ he’d committed to help Steve.

Not for the first time, Steve thinks he’s unbalanced. That something has come loose in his head and he’s unravelling like a thread. Bucky was just the start, what will it be next, what other cause will he lose himself to because he can’t bear the alternative? Steve knows he’s wrong. He knows he was wrong. But he can’t shake the belief that if Tony had just – had just _listened to him,_ this wouldn’t have happened. And they would never have needed Ross. And they wouldn’t be sitting here, now, in someone else’s submarine, broken down and reduced to something beyond what they’ve ever been.

Steve realises he never finished the thought. He looks up, and finds that Tony’s fallen asleep, head slumped at an uncomfortable angle, body listed to the side. So he gently tries to lever him down onto the bunk, cover him with the blanket, and then another thermal one he finds in a first aid pack. Tony is still shivering, even in his sleep. He seems – not the same.

Then again, none of them are. Steve will not sleep tonight.

 

Tony sleeps throughout the night and well into the next day. Not that they can tell this deep underwater. Still, it’s a relief; not to have to make conversation, force eye contact and interactions. A few times, Tony wakes up, groggy, incoherent, and Steve will make him sip some water, take a painkiller, and then draw the sheet back over his shoulders. On one occasion, he helps him stumble to the toilet, spoons food down his throat, and then lays a damp towel on his brow.

He doesn’t really wake up until about a day later. He stares at Steve, eyes wide, having apparently forgotten he was ever rescued. Steve apologises for how he shouted and Tony says he doesn’t remember. He asks after Pepper and Rhodey, questions where Steve is taking him. The answers remain the same.

Forty-eight hours into their trip back to Wakanda, and Steve’s eyes are starting to droop. He hasn’t slept. Tony continues to doze on the bunk, occasionally muttering something inaudible. The inky blackness of the ocean stretches on and on.

So his eyes don’t really focus fast enough to see Tony holding a wound up sheet in his hands, reflected in the dark glass.

It comes down around his neck and Steve jerks. Momentarily, with shock, with exhaustion, he feels Tony manage to pull it tight enough around his throat that he struggles to breathe. But it’s not hard to twist in his chair, take Tony by the shoulders, and push him back against the wall with a crunch, dragging the fabric from his neck. “Jesus Tony,” he cries “God, what – how am I supposed to help you, huh? How am I supposed to get them to think you’re harmless when you pull shit like that? God, oh – what were you thinking?” He asks, incredulous “Did you think you could kill me? Tony! Tony!”

“I’m sorry,” Tony huffs, eyes wide “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t – Steve, you’re Steve, I know. I know I know I’m sorry, I got confused. Please, listen, I got confused, I got – ah, you’re hurting me, Steve just – “

Steve lets go and Tony goes sliding to the floor. He scrambles back, arms outstretched, palms splayed. “I’m sorry,” he breathes again, hyperventilating, breath coming too fast, too quick “it was a mistake, Cap, Cap it was a mistake. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m – _no!”_

He calls out in a panic as Steve falls to his knees, head resting against the wall. “Oh, God,” he groans “oh Tony, Jesus what did they do to you, what did they,” he feels himself slump forward, head resting on Tony’s shoulder “God,” he mutters, and his hands curl in the material of Tony’s slacks “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Tony is breathing hard. He seems frozen, breath huffing past Steve’s ear; it takes him awhile to realise Steve isn’t going to hurt him.

And then his arms curl around Steve’s shoulders, too. And for some reason they stay like that, for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like it's time for me to just remind y'all that sometimes these characters are gonna act in ways you might not like.
> 
> Anyway I won't be able to post on Friday because I'm planning on going out and getting riotously drunk, so take this one today instead. 
> 
> Big question: this was originally tagged Steve/Bucky, because I just couldn't see a way of Steve and Tony ever figuring it out. But I've recently been drafting and I just sort of drift towards Steve/Tony, and I think I have their dynamic sorted out (lot's of hate sex, if you know what I mean, followed by cuddles and remorse). But you guys tell me: would you rather it was Steve/Bucky? Because I have a lot drafted for them too, and I mean I guess it's kinda misleading since I've had the story tagged stucky for the past two weeks. But yeah, let me know in the comments.
> 
> Also, again, please do comment! Only thing that keeps me writing, actually. So yeah.


	6. Natasha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all:
> 
> WOAH. The last chapter got something like 2,000 hits and 70-something comments which is... pretty amazing. Thank you for everyone that commented!! I know I bang on abt it like, a lot, but honestly waking up to an inbox full of comments is just the best!!!
> 
> Anyway, MOST of you said you'd prefer Steve/Tony, and I'm guessing that's why the hits went up too. I'm looking forward to trying to give them some sort of closure. Also, a few of you mentioned Tony/Natasha, which I thought was cool because I was originally planning on making them have a thing.

Natasha watches them come in from the balcony. An armed convoy of three trucks, rolling in over the dirt path that leads to the manse. They disappear from view, sliding under the metal that protects the entrance from the outside world, and she moves down to the foyer.  
  
She joins Sam, Wanda. Clint is nowhere to be seen, but she doesn’t let it trouble her. T’challa is also notably absent, but she’s heard that he’ll be making his way down as soon as he can to see Tony himself. There are guards, too, holding batons. Just in case.  
  
She sees Steve first, Tony is obscured by the broad bulk of his shoulders. But when she does catch a glimpse, it’s not – what she expected. He isn’t too thin, and his hair is no different from how it was when she last saw him, bar some greying. Tony seems able to walk by himself, although he seems shrunken; shoulders hunched, head held down at an angle, yeah. If Natasha had to guess, she’d go for maybe six or so months of sustained psychological torture with maybe… waterboarding? Electrocution? Something that doesn’t leave a large mark. She spies a few bruises, but not enough to suggest long-term physical beating. And besides, Tony is walking like he’s without too much pain.  
  
The guards stop them; they twist Tony’s hands behind his back, and slip them into handcuffs. “Hey,” Steve snaps, hand stalling them “hey, c’mon. What’s he gonna do? Leave those.”  
  
Natasha desperately wants to know what they talked about for the three days it took them to reach Morocco.  
  
She moves forward, hoping to greet him, to explain a little, offer some – some comfort, but then they’re pulling him away, through a glass door into somewhere Natasha has never been. “Where are they taking him?” She asks, and Tony goes willingly, eyes glassy, exhausted, and without resistance. He turns his head, briefly, to look back – at her or Steve she doesn’t know – but they keep marching forward, and then he disappears from sight.  
  
“Cells, under manse,” Steve mutters, tugging off his gloves.  
  
“He needs medical attention.”  
  
“He’s going to get it,” he says shortly. Whatever kindness had been there when he’d stopped them from cuffing Tony has melted away in the heat. “We need to talk.”  
  
“Steve!” Sam calls, making his way across the floor. “Hey, man – how’d it go? You okay?”  
  
“In and out. Routine. Easy, maybe too easy,” and Steve turns to Natasha. “I think they wanted us to take him,” he says bluntly “the building only went into lockdown after I’d left. This is, what, the second time I’ve broken in there? Security should be off the scale, not to mention they should have closed the tunnels Tony built months ago.”  
  
“Maybe they didn’t know they existed,” Sam points out, crossing his arms. “Maybe – hell, you know Stark likes a good escape plan.”  
  
“Maybe,” Steve agrees. “Could be. I know he likes to keep his options open, he probably  _planned_ for the eventuality that Ross would turn on him. But that doesn’t mean – it’s still too easy.”  
  
“How was he?” Natasha asks “On the way back.”  
  
Steve shrugs non-committedly. “We fought. After that… he didn’t say much. I made sure he ate, and that was about all I could do. I thought – I don’t know. Stupidly I thought I could maybe reconcile, there, but – he’s not well. When I found him – “ Steve had been addressing Natasha, and is now suddenly aware that they’re not alone. “I’ll tell you later,” he says.  
  
Sam bristles slightly. It’s what Natasha had said, right? He’s not a part of it, he doesn’t understand, not really. Steve’s best friend he may be, but he wasn’t there for New York. No matter how much Steve comes to hate Tony, he’ll still always be Tony. And it’s not like – it’s not like he can stop caring, either.  
  
“Well in that case,” Sam says “anything else to know?”  
  
“No. No, except – go easy on him,” Steve says. “C’mon, just – lighten a little. Even if you can’t forget what happened, Sam he’s not thinking great right now. You understand that. Tell Clint the same thing, just – we don’t need to fight. I genuinely believe that we need to put this all behind us. All of it. I lost my temper on the sub, Sam, and I’m not willing to let that happen again. He needs help, we all do. We can still make it right.”  
  
“Inspiring,” Sam says dryly, but his tone is softer too. “Look I’m not gonna – I’m not gonna lay into him, Steve. Just – let me check you a bit, okay? Help him, don’t trust him 100%. Keep a guard outside his room. Because if he’s as – unbalanced as you say, you don’t know what he’s gonna do next. Trust me.”  
  
“He’s probably right,” Natasha says quietly. “I’ve given up trying to predict Tony’s actions, Steve, and I wouldn’t put it past – “  
  
“I would,” Steve says shortly. “He’s been through a lot. He’s tired. Like I said, I need to speak with you. Alone.”  
  
It’s Wanda who puts her hand on Sam’s arm. “Leave him,” she says quietly “he needs to talk things through. We’re not helping.”  
  
Sam nods, then. “Yeah,” he says “yeah, sure. I’ll – I’ll see you at dinner.”  
  
Steve smiles, but it’s brittle. And he takes Natasha’s wrist, pulls her up stairs, down corridors, into an empty lounge, and then slams to door.  
  
Begins to cry.  
  
Natasha blinks, and Steve rests his back on the door, head in his hands, sobbing. Natasha –  
  
She’s never actually seen him cry.  
  
“Steve,” she says, levelly “Steve, Steve, c’mon – “  
  
“He was just, just  _sitting there,”_ he breathes, shaky, face red and words jerky with the staccato of his breath “in – they left him, left him in his own  _waste,_ Natasha, I never thought, I never thought – “ it dissolves into further sobs, more anguish, and Natasha just doesn’t know. “Oh,  _God,”_ he cries “Jesus, Jesus, he would have been there for months, thinking – thinking no one cared, thinking no one was ever going to come, and when I did – “  
  
“Steve,” Natasha blurts “please, you’re scaring me. You have to breathe. Look at me, no, look up at me, here sit down. Please, sit down,” she tries to lead him to a couch but his movements are jerky, uncoordinated, and he sounds like he  _can’t even breathe –_  
  
He stumbles, slides onto the ground, sitting supported by the back of the couch. “Jesus,” he huffs, head tipped back, face splotchy and shining with tears, mucus, chest rising and falling hard for air. “I did the right thing. I did the right thing, didn’t I, Natasha?”  
  
“Yeah,” she says, uncertain “yeah, yes of course you did,” and she’s not even sure what he’s referring too.  
  
“Really? Because – because you said. You told me, you  _asked me,_ if I was ever going to stop. And I said no, and that’s why you let me leave. But that’s not – “ Steve’s breath hiccups “that’s not quite the same as agreeing with me, is it?”  
  
“No,” she says slowly “it’s not.”  
  
Steve laughs, almost hysterically, and then he’s sobbing again. It’s terrifying, and bizarre, and wrong. Steve isn’t supposed to be this way, he’s not supposed – no no no,  _he’s_ not supposed to be the one who falls apart. “Hey, hey,” Natasha soothes, rubbing her hand over his back in wide, slow motions “it’s okay, Steve. It’s okay, Tony will be okay, we all will. This isn’t, it’s not your fault – “  
  
Steve buries his face in her neck, shakes apart. Natasha is frozen. She rubs his shoulders, holds his head, strokes his hair, whispers stupid things about everything being alright when it decidedly isn’t and Steve just howls, fingers wrapping themselves in her shirt and staying put for a long, long time.  
  
Eventually, achingly, he pulls himself away. Rubs at his red nose. His eyes are too bright, skin flushed; he sure looks like he was crying, although Natasha’s never seen it before. He lets out a shaky breath; rests his brow on his knees.  
  
“You going to tell me what happened?” Natasha asks quietly. Steve looks up.  
  
Steve sniffs, dabs his eyes with the back of his hand. “I lost my mind.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“When – after Lagos. After Ross announced the Accords. When – when Peggy died. Something snapped, I think.”  
  
Natasha wants to offer advice. She wants to say that that’s rarely how mental breakdowns work, that it wouldn’t really feel like a sudden snapping, but a long, uncontrolled spiral. But she lets Steve continue. “I couldn’t tell anyone,” he croaks “I could barely think, honestly. All I could think about was her. And everything I’d lost. And I kept thinking about how the Accords were about to – to pull apart everything I’d worked for, and built, and I kept – all I wanted, I wanted to be safe, somewhere, with Peggy, and not – not there, not here, not – “  
  
“Steady,” Natasha urges. “Calm down. Think.”  
  
“And then Bucky,” Steve says, a statement, like it’s an explanation on it’s own (which it probably is). “I’ve had a year to think. I’ve had a year, and if I was being – if I was totally, completely honest – “  
  
“You regret what you did.”  
  
Steve stares at her. “No,” he croaks “no, no I can’t, I don’t. But I could have done more.”  
  
Natasha curses inwardly. “There was nothing more you could have done, short of predicting the future. You know that really, Steve.”  
  
She knows what’s happening. He’s struggling with what really happened. He’s struggling to come to terms with what he’s really done. “I can accept,” he says “that it wasn’t… thought through.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“I – I can accept that I was crazy, almost, in – in my  _desire_ to just keep him alive. I didn’t even think – Nat, I didn’t even have a plan for what happened next, I just thought if I could keep Bucky safe, then I could – I don’t know, what would we do? Live together? Settle down?”  
  
“You could have,” Natasha points out. “If you have wanted to, you could have retired. Bucky would have been incarcerated in a facility, I know, but only until it was certain he wasn’t a danger. Tony would have helped, you know that. It could have – “  
  
“You make it sound so simple,” Steve whispers “you make it sound like – like Ross wouldn’t have had Bucky executed. Like he wouldn’t have turned on any of us. Like I really would have been allowed to live the rest of my life as Steve Rogers and, and,” he breath hitches “and draw pictures and buy my own groceries and make a family and worry about taxes and getting my kids into college and what to buy my wife for her birthday.” He trails off into crying again, this time softer, and he covers his eyes. “It’s all I wanted,” he croaked “all I wanted was to be – happy, and safe. I still – how sad is this – I still  _dream_ about it, in my head, I imagine I’m living in a big house, Peggy, four children, and Bucky next door. They have names, and dreams, and I’m – I don’t know, but I’m happy. Peggy died, I lost,  _everything,_ and when I came out no one asked me – no one asked me if I wanted to go back to school or settle down or maybe just – I don’t know, graphic design for a living, no one – “  
  
Tony had mentioned this to Natasha, once. Tony was strange on the best of days, often mentioning things with what seemed like little thought, and he’d said, out of the blue, that Steve was still really young. Natasha had asked him what prompted it, and Tony had shrugged, said that at twenty-seven very few people have themselves sorted out. At twenty-seven, you’re not supposed to be running teams and facing the government; there’s a reason you have to be thirty-five to be president, and although Steve is technically over eighty, in Tony’s eyes, he’s still a kid – and a kid who never got to grow up, at that.  
  
“Sometimes we don’t get what we want,” Natasha says quietly. “I know. I’m sorry.”  
  
“God,” Steve breathes “look at me, complaining to you. You never even had a choice, you were always – “  
  
“Let’s not talk about that.”  
  
“I couldn’t let Bucky go, okay? And I’ll accept, I’ll accept that there were other options. I see that now. But if I had supported the Accords, and they had taken him – and they would have – I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself. When they inevitably took Wanda, you, me, Clint, Scott and everyone, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. I can’t – go back, and turn back time, or forget what happened, and I don’t regret what I did. I can’t.”  
  
“And you’re saying this now, because – “  
  
“Because of Tony. Because he’s living proof that the Accords were wrong. The wrong way to fix things. And I believe that, honestly.”  
  
“Yeah,” Natasha says, and secedes. “Yeah, he is.”  
  
Steve swallows, hard. “I should have got him out sooner. I promised him, you know? I promised if he needed my help, I’d be there.”  
  
“You couldn’t have known they would – do what they did.”  
  
“Didn’t I?” Steve says bitterly “Isn’t that what I was fighting from the start?”  
  
 They go quiet. Natasha looks at Steve for a long time. “You need help,” she says, honestly. “You need to see someone.”  
  
“No I don’t.”  
  
“Yes, you do. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, you need help like any soldier needs help. I should have seen it before,” she mutters “you clearly had some kind of nervous breakdown. Christ, of course that was it, and then with Sharon – “  
  
Steve’s eyes snap up. “What about her?”  
  
“I mean – Steve, she’s your ex-lover’s niece. Who you – you kiss, after finding out she’s gone. That’s not – healthy, or normal. Not at all. You know that, don’t you?”  
  
Steve doesn’t say anything. He’s pressed his head to his knees, folded his hands through his hair. He looks so small, like this. Fragile.  
  
“The Accords were right about one thing,” Natasha continues “if this is how you’re feeling, you can’t – you can’t be on active duty. I’ll talk to Sam. We’ll sort it out, we’ll – figure it out.”  
  
“No,” Steve says, and he looks up, panicked. “You –  _don’t.”_  
  
“What?”  
  
“Tell Sam. Don’t tell him. Don’t tell anyone, keep this between us, please.”  
  
Natasha is shocked, and then irritated. “Steve, you just told me you suffered a mental break, I can’t just  _let you_ continue the way you always did – “  
  
“You have to,” Steve hisses, and he grabs her wrist. “You can’t tell anyone, please, Natasha. If they take me off duty I’ll – I’ll kill myself, I swear. I’ll fucking shoot myself in the head, I can’t – not have purpose, not  _be_ someone, please. Just don’t tell them. I’ll work on them, but please, please don’t – “  
  
“I won’t,” Natasha says, and she doesn’t know if she’s lying. “I promise, then. I won’t.”  
  
Steve studies her. His eyes are red-rimmed. “I’m sorry,” he says, looking away. “I shouldn’t have sprung this on you, that was – that was selfish.”  
  
“It’s alright,” Natasha says levelly. “Part of the job, I guess.”  
  
“If you go to see Tony, just – be nice to him. He wouldn’t talk at all, on the way back. I mean, we fought, stupidly, stupid, I – said things I shouldn’t have said, and he hasn’t talked since.”  
  
“I had no intention of doing anything other than ask for forgiveness, Steve.”  
  
“He’d just – lie on the bunk. He’d barely eat. I tried to talk, honestly I did, about stupid things too, like – I don’t know, Wakanda weather, the food, I tried to show him that he’d be  _safe,_ but it was all empty words, after what I told him, and now he’s here, awaiting trial, and they tried to cuff him – “  
  
“We can stand for him,” Natasha says quietly “it’s okay. You carry weight here, and T’challa isn’t – he isn’t arbitrary, or cruel. What’s the punishment? Will it – Christ, will the put him in prison?”  
  
“T’challa mentioned house arrest, if he complies. If he doesn’t… then prison. Yeah. After that, though, he’ll be free to do what he wants. He can stay here, try to make it out on his own. It’s not – I mean, that’s only if they find him guilty.”  
  
Tony’s too old to start life again, Natasha thinks. He wouldn’t make it. He doesn’t have a choice really, not at all. She slumps, sits down next to Steve. “And what do you think?” She asks morosely “Will they find him guilty?”  
  
Steve shrugs a shoulder. “I’m pretty sure what they did to him counts as a cruel and unusual punishment. Anything he said… it was under duress.”  
  
“Are you angry at him?”  
  
“For what?”  
  
“For breaking. For telling them where you were.”  
  
Steve considers. “No,” he says. “No, how could I be?”  
  
  
Natasha visits him then, that evening. She carries with her a plate of food. Nothing special – Tony is technically a prisoner, it’s nothing like the three course affair they have upstairs. But she doesn’t think his stomach would be able to take it, anyway.  
  
She’s surprised that there aren’t any guards posted outside. She’s even more shocked to find the door unlocked. Tony’s kicked off the covers, and he’s lying sprawled on the small bed. The room is  _sweltering;_ no windows, no air con, and it’s the height of summer. There’s even a fireplace, although Natasha thinks that might be a callback to when these rooms were used for servants some hundred years ago. No, now they’re in the bowels of the manse, and it is excruciatingly warm.  
  
He’s only wearing underwear, and Natasha can’t blame him, she can barely breathe in here as it is. She had wanted to start with a greeting, she’d wanted to be cool, and collected, but the first thing she finds herself saying is “God, it’s fucking hot in here.”  
  
Tony barely stirs. His little room – prison, if she’s honest – would be comfortable enough, all things considered. There’s a toilet in a small room off to the left, and the bed is fairly soft. Natasha was going to take a seat, but instead puts the food on the table, picks up the empty bowl by the bed. Maybe it held something originally, it doesn’t matter; she washes it out, and grabs a sponge from the sink.  
  
Returning, she settles at the chair by Tony’s bed, rests the bowl on the table, and lets the sponge soak up the water. “Are you okay?” She asks quietly. Tony’s eyes are heavy, and he’s watching her with a mix of – what is that, anger? Distrust?  
  
“Why are you here?” He croaks. Steve had mentioned that he’d been having trouble stringing sentences together, well, no such problem here. Apparently that doesn’t extend to betrayers and people and run off into the night without a trace.  
  
“I was going to come sooner, but – you know. It’s been busy.”  
  
Tony doesn’t reply. Instead, Natasha wrings out sponge. She lays it first on Tony’s brow, and then gently drags it across his cheek.  
  
Tony’s hand is on her wrist. “What are you doing?” He asks, and the mistrust is evident.  
  
“You’re hot,” Natasha says quietly. She presses the back of her hand to Tony’s neck. “In fact, you’re over-heating. I’m going to talk to someone about getting air-conditioning in here, or moving you somewhere else.”  
  
Tony coughs, suddenly, wet sounding and brittle at the same time. He tries weakly to bat her away. “Don’t,” he mutters, feverish. “You’ll make it worse.”  
  
“Make what worse?”  
  
Tony mumbles something unintelligible. His eyes droop, and then he pulls them open once more. Carefully, so not to shock him, Natasha draws the sponge over the sweat that’s collected under his chin. He needs more than this, he needs ice baths and air-con and sun, but Natasha doesn’t have pull here. After Tony, she’s the second most disliked of everyone, and it’s not like she’s in any position to tell the King of Wakanda how to deal with his political prisoners. “You’re guilty,” Tony mutters thickly, blinking drowsily.  
  
“That’s true,” Natasha offers, voice dull. “I am.”  
  
“You – you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t,” Tony says, and it’s sounds bitter, almost resentful. Natasha purses her lips.  
  
“If I knew you had no one else, then yes. I would be.”  
  
“I hate you,” Tony spits as vehemently as he can, considering he can barely lift his head. “You – you left me.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“If you hadn’t, this wouldn’t have happened. We’d all be home. Steve would have come round, I know it, I know – “  
  
“Tony,” Natasha says quietly “nothing you or I could have said would ever have made him come around. The man was – “ she lowers her voice further “ – Tony, there was something wrong with him. What he did, giving up our team like that, you, Sam, me, Wanda, Clint, everything. After everything he’d worked for. He wouldn’t have stopped. Barnes is a… a disease for him. He’s the only thing he had left and – and I don’t think he ever adjusted. Not really.” She goes back to gently washing the scum that’s gotten itself stuck to Tony’s skin free with gentle circles of the sponge.  
  
“He would’ve come round,” Tony mutters again, half-delirious “he would have, eventually.”  
  
Natasha winces at the burns on his chest. “They shock you?” She asks. Tony nods.  
  
“Don’t want to talk about it,” he mumbles “bad bad business.”  
  
“Yeah,” Natasha agrees. She rips a discarded strip of Tony’s jumpsuit and soaks it in the water, lays it on his brow. “Say, have you eaten?”  
  
“M’ not hungry.”  
  
“Steve says you barely ate on the trip back.”  
  
“He talked about me?” Tony whispers, suddenly alert. “What did he say? Did he say anything to you?”  
  
“No, other than – he’s worried about you, and he hopes you’ll get better soon.”  
  
Tony swallows. “My head hurts,” he admits. “I – if I could just get a painkiller – “  
  
“I’ll look into it.” She adds it to her list: air-con, painkillers, clothes, maybe a few books. The room is so hot it’s hard to think.  
  
“Have you heard from – from Pepper? Or Rhodey? I haven’t… they wouldn’t…”  
  
“We know they’re alive,” Natasha says. “And we know where they’re held. Other than that… Tony, to rescue them would mean war.”  
  
“Should have picked them,” he mutters “should have picked them, Kevin was going to kill me anyway.”  
  
“Jesus, Tony – who’s Kevin?”  
  
Tony covers his eyes with his forearm, and – without meaning to, maybe forgetting, shows Natasha a string of black burns wrapped around his wrist. She grabs his other hand, holds it up, and finds the same thing. “What is this?” She asks “Tony?” And she hears a rising hysteria in her voice “What did he do to you?”  
  
Tony rolls, taking his wrist and bunching them to his chest. “Nothing,” he mumbles “nothing, nothing.”  
  
“Does it hurt? Jesus, this is – what the hell is this?”  
  
“Bands, it’s where they’d put the bands,” he says “I don’t – want to think,” and his voice goes rough, shallow. “Stop it, just – “  
  
“You should eat,” Natasha says, recovering. “Here. It’s plain chicken and some bread. I know it’s not much but your stomach won’t – “  
  
Tony groans, rolls onto his side. He presses a hand to his chest. “Go away,” he breathes “leave me alone.”  
  
“Tony, you need – “  
  
“You’re a nasty fucking stone cold bitch,” Tony spits “you’re a traitor and a liar and I fucking  _hate you._ Get out. Get out,  _now!”_ It’s as loud as he can manage, and he’s tried to push himself up, pointing with a shaking finger. “You can’t make me forget what happened, Romanoff, I don’t forget. I don’t – “ Tony is wheezing “I don’t forget.  _Watch your back,_ yeah well, I never should have let you leave. Should have, should’ve let them take you. And they could have tortured you, huh, they would have tortured you and then I’d come to you and I’d say, I’d be like, oh you have to eat, oh is it hot in here? Oh well, that’s a shame, I’ll talk to someone and get that sorted out honey, I’ll talk, I’ll fix – “ Tony dissolves into a coughing fit, great hacking things that shake his frame.  
  
Natasha sorts this in her mind: suffering from some kind of post-traumatic shock. Almost definitely some real anger there too. His diatribe suggests that he’s also coming to terms with his reversal of fortunes and lack of power. Natasha selects an appropriate response:  
  
“You’re right,” she says quietly. “I know, and you’re right. But you need friends here, Tony. And I want to help.”  
  
“ _Get. Out!”_ He screams, and throws the plate of food at the wall. He still has surprising strength for someone so clearly weakened. Natasha notes it calmly, despite the spike of anxiety that such violence always brings.  
  
“Okay,” she says softly. “I will.” She has nothing else to add, nothing else that will make this better for Tony, somehow. He’s scared, and he’s tired, and when she shuts the door behind her, he starts sobbing, too.




**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thoughts are much appreciated! Y'all are really hard on Steve, so I hope maybe it comes across that he -- like Tony -- is just really fucking messed up? And I figure, if Tony's PTSD and trauma is a good enough reason for him not to be held entirely culpable for his actions, then the same definitely applies to Steve.
> 
> Anyway I'd love to know how the characters are shaping out. I can give you an actual chapter for Bucky's return -- I'll just tell you it's between chap. 10-15


	7. Tony

The room is small, but he’s used to it.  
  
Tony spends his days drifting, dozing. Someone brings him a fan. Some servants – servants? Help? Staff? Tony doesn’t know what to call them – try to convince him to eat. One day, he wakes up linked to an IV. His head is buzzing. Honestly, hours blur into one another in the heat. He tosses and turns and, after he tries to rip out his IV, they cuff his hands to the bed.  
  
Tony hates that. Hates it. He spent a month cuffed to a bed and plied with psychotropic drugs, he  _doesn’t like it,_ but there’s no one to voice his complaint to and, even if there was, he doesn’t want to impose.  
  
So he sleeps, mostly. Sometimes Natasha is there, and she washes him with ice water, cleans the sheets where he’s sweated through them, and leaves fresh fruit he won’t eat. Other times, it’s Steve, who doesn’t say anything while Tony pretends to sleep. No one else has visited, apart from that. Tony wonders if his trial ever going to happen, or if they’ll keep him down here, undecided, until it’s all over and they all go home, and then Tony is left to rot in a windowless room buried in the earth, and everyone forgets about him –  
  
He bangs his head back against the mattress, screams.  _Let me out! Let me out! Let me see the sky!_  
  
When he wakes up, next time, the IV is gone, and his hands are free. There’s a fan, and someone has left books on the table.  
  
  
“Look alive, Stark.”  
  
Tony jerks, blinks, and wrenches himself from whatever nightmare he’d been dreaming. Sam Wilson’s face is pressed close to his, and Tony recoils at the unfamiliarity of it. “What?” He mumbles “What’s – goin’ on, what’s – “  
  
“You should probably stand, you know. It’s respectful.”  
  
Tony feels his heart thundering in his chest. “I don’t understand,” he manages, eyes cast on the ground “why – is something – “  
  
“It’s alright, Stark,” Tony hears, and he knows that voice. He knows it well, from TV, from experience, as a witness to the trial that Tony runs by in his head before he sleeps. The king settles, imposingly, on the side of the bed. His presence is solid, strong; he fixes Tony with his eyes. “How much did you tell them?” He asks, levelly.  
  
Tony blinks. “What?” He croaks.  
  
T’challa exhales, slowly, through his nostrils. His eyes move to Sam, who cocks his head, purses his lips, raises his eyebrows, like he’s saying  _I told you so._ Tony doesn’t understand. His brow is still furrowed when T’challa turns back to him.  
  
“The government. The US government. What did you tell them about my involvement in the protection of refugees?” He asks slowly, like talking to a child.  
  
Tony does not – could not – possibly understand what he means. “I – “ he swallows, and tries to speak. “I don’t – I don’t – “  
  
“It’s alright,” the king says again, and he raises one hand, voice so soft, deep and mellow, that Tony is instantly soothed. “There is no judgement here. We’re all brothers now, Stark. But there’s no good to be done hiding the truth. Tell me what you told them.”  
  
“What refugees?” Tony manages, collecting his thoughts enough to try and focus.  
  
“America’s Avengers, of course.”  
  
Tony shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he whispers.  
  
“Don’t know? Can’t remember?” T’challa probes gently “Or are you lying. Again, there is no judgement, no one would blame you for breaking your silence – “  
  
“I don’t lie,” Tony blurts “I wouldn’t – I don’t lie. I don’t.” He sees Sam look away and feels, suddenly, desperately, like he needs to make his point. “I  _don’t,”_ he stresses “I never did, I don’t – I don’t – don’t – “ his brain is melting again, all his words going to static. He feels like a broken record, and it’s the only word he can get out. His mouth won’t let him move past it, maybe he wants to justify himself, but he doesn’t want to risk their hatred, and even if he could get the words out he doesn’t know what he’s trying to say. Eventually, T’challa stills him with a hand to his shoulder, rock-solid, and he makes sure he’s looking straight into Tony’s eyes.  
  
“I believe you,” he says steadily. “You would not intentionally lie, would you?”  
  
Tony shakes his head. This, at least, he can manage.  
  
T’challa nods. “That’s what I thought. This is a pressing matter, but it can wait a day, two. Take the time to rest. Gather your thoughts.” He stands, abruptly, and leaves. The heavy door is shut slowly behind his retreating back.  
  
Briefly, Tony forgets he’s not alone. Moments go by. Then he remembers Sam, standing by the fireplace, and jerks. What does he want to say?  _I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to leave everything you loved. I’m sorry you don’t have a home. That you’re an outlaw, a pariah. I’m sorry you’ve had to lose trust in everything and everyone. Know that I tried. I tried._  
  
“That it?” Sam asks lazily, with as much contempt as Tony ever thought he could manage. “That all you have to say?”  
  
The buzzing is back in Tony’s brain. The ringing in his ears.  He’ll say something, and he’ll show Sam. The words bump into each other in his mouth, trip before they pass his lips. He blinks, tries to recover his thoughts. “I don’t.”  
  
“You don’t? Don’t what, Stark? Don’t know?”  
  
Tony does the cowardly thing (that’s all he is, now, a coward) and lowers his head. Hopes Sam won’t ask him anything else. He doesn’t breathe until he hears him slam the doors.  
  
  
It’s maybe by the end of the second week that Tony gets desperate. He hasn’t seen the sun in so long, months and months in the Raft, then the submarine, then transferred under cover of darkness to the compound and now this cell. He just – he just knows, if he sees the sun, breathes the air, he’ll feel better. His head will clear. And that’s what sends him stumbling from bed for the first time, in order to find a window.  
  
The manse is seemingly endless, windowless and humid. There must be more to it, but Tony’s brain sends him in circles. Each corridor seems identical to the one before, and he knows there must be something different about them, that there’s nothing hard about navigating his way around, but by the fourth attempt he’s so tired, and he’s lost. He just wanted a window. He hasn’t seen the sky in so long. If he could just – if he could just get some fresh air –  
  
He doesn’t expect to run into Clint.  
  
He doesn’t know why he’s down here. Maybe he likes the heat, the oppressive humidity, maybe he was even on his way to find Tony, who knows. Now, the guilt is so thick Tony can barely breathe. Can’t think of a single word that will make this right.  
  
Clint raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t think you’d be up and out so soon.”  
  
Tony nods, slowly. “I – yeah.”  
  
“Enjoying yourself?”  
  
Tony can’t tell if that’s a joke. Is it a joke? Is Clint mocking him? Or is he trying to be lighthearted, the way they used to talk. He chances a look at his eyes: definitely mocking.  
  
“How – how are you?” He murmurs, keeping his eyes fixed on a point near Clint’s head.  
  
“Who, me? Nice of you to consider it, really.”  
  
_I always did,_ Tony wants to say  _I did all of this to make it better. I never meant for this to happen._ Instead, he mumbles something else, asking after Laura, the kids.  
  
“Oh, they’re back home. Hostages.” Clint’s smile is tight and vicious. “Of course, you would know.  
Shouldn’t you be in bed?”  
  
“I thought – window. I haven’t seen a window. I mean – “ Tony winces; that sounds stupid, thick, you fucking ignoramus, say it right. “I haven’t had air. In outside. In. I thought I could find a window. Or a garden.” His voice goes mildly hopeful the longer Clint lets him speak, as if he’s thawing, changing his mind, will help.  
  
Worse than that. He doesn’t say a word. Just turns, and walks away. Tony blinks. “Thank you,” he mumbles after him, standing alone in the wide corridor. He could maybe follow; Clint must have been coming from somewhere. But he can’t face looking at the others, seeing their hateful glares. His head is going fuzzy; he stumbles from door to door, searching for his room. They all blur together, they all look the same. It was stupid, even trying to leave. He should have stayed. He should have just  _stayed._  
  
The tears creep, unbidden, into his eyes.  _Don’t you dare,_ he thinks  _don’t you fucking dare._ He feels like a child, lost in a crowd. If he can’t find his room, then he’ll have to seek help. And if he seeks help they’ll spit on him, mock him, and he can’t – even if it’s selfish, he can’t deal with that. He’s still too prideful, and he can’t bear to have his once friends do that. He can’t; he’s a coward.  
  
The ringing in his ears starts up, and static takes over his brain. He doesn’t remember crouching, head on his knees, hiding in the corner, not until there’s a hand on his back and he’s flinching, curling away, breathing ragged. “It’s okay,” a woman soothes “it’s alright, Mr Stark. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”  
  
The voice is familiar, even if the tone isn’t. For the briefest moment, the name escapes him. “Wanda?” He croaks.  
  
“What are you doing out here, Mr Stark? You’re not well enough to leave your bed.”  
  
Tony babbles something about windows and oxygen and light and dark. “I couldn’t find my room,” he finishes, shamefully. “I couldn’t find it.”  
  
Wanda stares at him, and Tony waits for the other shoe to drop. He waits for her to sneer, to give up the trick, or laugh. God knows, she of all people, has a right to laugh. Instead, she presses the butt of her hand to his brow. And he feels at peace.  
  
The static clears, for the first time. He can breathe. It’s artificial, but it’s good. Wanda helps him stand, holds his hand like a child. She leads him through the corridors, back to what is finally, recognisably, his chamber. “Thank you,” he says, inordinately grateful, for the help, for the whatever she’s done to his head. She lets him climb back into bed, safe, and pours him some water from the jug on the table.  
  
“It’s alright,” she says quietly. “Don’t worry.” She glides her hand over Tony’s face, never touching, and he feels his eyes start to droop.  
  
“I don’t sleep,” he mumbles, guard lowered. “It’s better if I don’t.”  
  
“And would you allow me to help you?”  
  
It doesn’t matter what Tony allows and what he doesn’t, his permission, his authority, doesn’t mean anything. He doesn’t have any, here. She can do what she likes, and Tony can take it. His mind starts to bubble again, panic bursting through the cracks. Wanda shushes him gently. Tony thinks she might hate him, but he can’t remember. She hates him. She hated him long before anyone else. And now…  
  
His head rests on the pillow, and his mother sings to him. Outside, the sun is shining, and through the window he smells freshly mown grass.  
  
  
Wanda visits often, after that. She lays her hand on Tony’s brow and lets him sleep. She shows him things, dreams so fantastically real Tony dreads waking. He plays catch with his father, sings with his mother, thanksgiving dinner with Rhodey and Pepper. She lets him see things he wouldn’t even  _dare_ imagine, fantasies he’s denied even himself; it’s better than the best therapy, it’s the most effective drug, and Tony doesn’t know how he would survive without it.  
  
They rarely talk, what could they talk about? The age gap is too large, and Tony never quite forgave Wanda for she did. Not about Lagos, no, that was an honest mistake; he resents Ultron, resents what she showed him, what she made him do. Maybe Wanda is guilty for that. And that’s why she helps him.  
  
Sometimes, he can’t tell if it’s her singing, or his mind. But God, she helps him sleep, and that’s all Tony needs, it’s all he wants. Some goddamn rest.  
  
  
Tony is reading, curled against the corner of the bed, fan blowing air onto his heavy, sweating limbs, trying to focus on the words, when Clint wheels in the machine.  
  
Tony stares. His mouth goes dry. “What – what is that?” He manages, croaking. “Clint – Barton? Please, what – what is that – “  
  
“Give me your hand,” Clint asks, and Tony knows, then. He sees the clips. Tony is going to give Clint his hand, and Clint will attach him to the machine, and then they will burn the answers they want out of him.  
  
“No,” he mumbles, scooting backwards “please. Clint, I – I don’t need this, I’ll tell you all anyway – “  
  
“Yeah, well, we need to make sure it’s true for posterity, okay?” He says brutally. “Just give me your hand,” he snaps impatiently “stop being a kid about this Stark.”  
  
“No, no,” Tony mutters “please, Clint, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, don’t – don’t do this, don’t – “  
  
“Don’t do what? Christ, Tony, it monitors your heartbeat! It’s a lie detector! Did you think – Jesus, what do you think of us?”  
  
Tony mumbles, mutters, and Clint snatches his hand. He isn’t too rough, and in fact he’s careful not to rub against the scarring on Tony’s wrists. “I see,” he sighs “they electrocuted you, huh? Well in that case I’m sorry,” he says, genuinely. “I should have been clearer.”  
  
Tony’s hear is beating in his throat and his nods, jerkily. “Okay,” he says, almost inaudibly. Natasha has now come through the door, as has Wanda. And Sam. And Steve. And T’challa. And they’re all standing there, T’challa perching on the side of the bed, the rest of them standing, and watching, and Tony wants to be sick.  
  
“Tell us, Stark. From the beginning.”  
  
“The beginning?” Tony whispers, and his throat is dry. “Which beginning?”  
  
“Start when you were arrested.”  
  
Tony’s hands are shaking, his mouth not making words. He reaches for the water on the bedside table but he’s not steady enough to drink. “Jesus,” a person mutters “someone help him, quickly.”  
  
Wanda helps him hold the glass to his lips. He coughs. His head starts to spin. “I was arrested,” he begins slowly. “I was taken to the Raft immediately. I – I beat my psychiatrist.”  
  
“And what did you tell them?” Clint asks “Did they ask you where we were? How soon did you speak?” It’s not accusatory, exactly, but it’s not friendly either. Tony opens his mouth, and closes it again. He’s at a loss.  
  
“There’s no rush, Stark,” T’challa says. “You take your time. We will get your whole story, in front of witnesses.”  
  
The heart monitor has picked up, but is still steady. Tony hates they get to read him like this, they get to see everything that makes him want to die, and they can store that and use it and mock him with it later. “No – no one asked me anything like that, the first week I was there.”  
  
“Good,” T’challa speaks approvingly. “Keep going.”  
  
“I was kept in – just a cell.” Tony doesn’t want to talk about this, not at all, and he doesn’t want to look them in the eyes when he talks about being trapped in a prison he helped create. “I wasn’t told why. I wasn’t allowed access to a lawyer. No phone call, no visitors.”  
  
“Right.” Sam says “That’s what the accords allow for, right?”  
  
“Yes,” Tony whispers, and his neck burns with shame. Don’t look up, don’t look up, don’t look up. The heart monitor spikes, and everyone can hear it.  
  
“At what point did you realise you were being held for information?” T’challa asks, gently. Tony swallows, hard, and tries to consider.  
  
“The interrogation happened – they asked me where you’d gone. All of you. They asked if King T’challa was hiding – was hiding you, in Wakanda.”  
  
“And you said?” T’challa asks. The room is filled with tension, the silence a pregnant pause.  
  
“I said I didn’t know,” Tony mutters “that I didn’t think so.”  
  
The heart monitor, at least, holds steady: they know it’s the truth.  
  
“And did you know? Did you know I kept the New Avengers as my guests?”  
  
Tony shrugs a shoulder, keeps his eyes trained down. “I suspected,” he mumbles, and starts to compulsively smooth the blanket with the flat of his hands.  
  
“You didn’t know?” Natasha asks, abruptly. “You didn’t know we were here?”  
  
“Not – for sure.” For the first time, Tony looks up, seeks her out. “How could I?” He croaks.  
  
There’s a brief murmur throughout the gathered team, conferring. “We thought you had spies on us. We thought – you knew,” Clint says bluntly. “We were told you knew.”  
  
“Told?”  
  
“I had reports,” T’challa breaks in, almost apologetically. “I was told to be careful, that Tony Stark had eyes and ears everywhere.”  
  
Tony shakes his head. “You give me too much credit, you – overestimate me. I’m not good at this, at politics. I never – all the information I had was that Steve broke you all out of the raft sometime after – after. That’s all I knew for sure.”  
  
“That it was Steve?” Natasha asks, and she and Steve lock eyes.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Did you share this information with the authorities?” T’challa questions. The beeping picks up, rapidly. He can’t lie.  
  
“Yes,” he whispers shamefully. T’challa nods, and he sees looks being exchanged between the team. He can’t – he can’t let that stand. “It was after,” Tony blurts “after they – I would have said anything.”  
  
“Explain.”  
  
Tony swallows, thick and heavy, and the heart monitor is an irritating almost constant high pitched tone. Sweat burns the back of his neck, his chest, half with fear the other half with humiliation. These people used to be his friends. They would have cared, once.  
  
“They would ask me,” Tony begins, slowly. “They would ask if Steve was hiding in Wakanda. They wanted me to sign a statement, saying I had given evidence. I said I didn’t know where he had gone. But I think they knew, somehow, but couldn’t act legally until they had a written statement, or evidence, or – I think they already knew. They always asked if he was in Wakanda, never if I just knew where he had gone. And when I didn’t sign…”  
  
“They began their enhanced interrogation?”  
  
“It wasn’t – not until – “ Tony takes a steadying breath, grasps the blanket in his hands, focuses on his knuckles. “At first, they just wanted the statement. They would ask if Steve was in Wakanda, I would say no. And then I would say I didn’t know. And then they – stopped turning off the lights. And stopped food, and water. I wouldn’t have – if I had – if I had had sense, or my wits, I wouldn’t have – I didn’t – I didn’t even know if he  _was_ here, no one told me anything. I wouldn’t have signed, if they hadn’t – for weeks, I think, I didn’t eat, or sleep, and then when I wouldn’t, when I didn’t – “  
  
The heart monitor goes wild. Wanda’s hand on his brow; peace. His breathing smooths out. He starts again, beeping slow and steady.  
  
“After that, those weeks,” Tony murmurs “I still refused to sign. So that was when they – started.”  
  
“Started.”  
  
Tony doesn’t want to say the word. “Enhanced interrogation,” he says, so quietly it can barely be heard. But the heart monitor keeps its steady rhythm.  
  
“Why did you hold out so long, Stark? What made you resist signing that page?”  
  
Tony blinks. “Because I didn’t know. I really, truthfully, didn’t know.”  
  
“But you could have lied, spared yourself. Why didn’t you?”  
  
“I don’t know,” he mutters, and the heart monitor picks up.  
  
“Don’t lie,” T’challa chides gently. “Don’t worry. We’ll need your full testimony, Stark. This is your trial, now.”  
  
“I suspected,” Tony wheezes, and that’s the truth. “I suspected this is where they had gone. But I didn’t – want to make is worse.”  
  
“Thank you, for your truth.”  
  
“Make it worse?” Clint croaks. “Worse than it is now?”  
  
“I thought I could stop it,” Tony breathes, and his words go clammy. He feels his throat close up.  _Don’t cry,_ he wills himself,  _not in front of these people. Don’t – don’t give them that satisfaction, don’t let them see –_  
  
“Stop what you started,” Clint says, quietly. Tony just nods.  
  
“And after they started this… interrogation. That’s when you signed?”  
  
Tony remembers it clearly. His fingers had shaken too much to hold the pen, so someone had to guide his hand over the page. His signature had been scratchy, out of use; AES. His full name, the way he always signed. “Yes,” he says.  
  
“When did you implicate the Captain in the proceedings?”  
  
“After.”  
  
“Did they ask you outright?”  
  
“They asked me a lot.”  
  
“And what did you tell them?”  
  
“Whatever they wanted to hear.”  
  
More looks. “Could you give us some examples, Mr Stark.”  
  
“They asked me if I let Natasha leave without taking her in after she let Steve escape with Barnes. I told them I did.”  
  
“Explain,” Natasha asks, shortly.  
  
“You aided Steve’s escape, and I let you go.”  
  
“What else did they ask, Stark?” T’challa prompts.  
  
Tony doesn’t want to say, anymore. He’s reached a limit of what he can explain without their eternal hatred. He chews his bottom lip, wraps the sheet over his knuckles, almost tears it with the force of how he tugs. “If I knew Barnes was definitely with Steve.”  
  
“And you said?”  
  
“Yes, yes. I would have answered yes to anything; I  _did_ answer yes to everything. Even – even things I didn’t know about, I made things up. I told them – I told them what they wanted to hear, whatever that was. I lied.”  
  
“What happened after you admitted to your ‘crimes’?”  
  
“I was told that I would be executed, but – but they wouldn’t hurt others, if I cooperated.”  
  
“Others? What others, Tony?”  
  
His heart is in his mouth. He can’t breathe. “Nothing,” he stutters “anyone, everyone.”  
  
“You’re lying,” Natasha states, but this time it’s gentle. “Don’t – don’t worry.”  
  
“We won’t judge you,” Sam croaks. “Just say it.”  
  
Tony can’t. He screws his eyes tight, grasps at his hair with his hands. Clint remains silent, staring at him, stony. He doesn’t want to say it. He can’t.  
  
Wanda makes the decision for him. The peace crawls up his temples, and his mouth becomes unstuck. “I was told, if I cooperated, that they wouldn’t hurt Jim. Or Pepper. Sharon, Maria. Or – “ and he looks up, addresses Clint straight on “or your children.”  
  
A long pause. “What about my wife?”  
  
“They never mentioned her. I don’t think – I don’t know. Maybe they didn’t have her. I’m sorry, I – I should be more help. I should have said. I should – I – I should have said. I should have said. I did what I could, you, you understand I did what I could. All I wanted was to die. That’s all I wanted, and they promised – I thought, if I could keep them safe at least – “  
  
“That wouldn’t need to happen if not for you.”  
  
“I know. I know I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry – “  
  
“Tony.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Tony breathes again “I’m so fucking sorry, I didn’t want – I didn’t mean – “ the heart monitor goes wild, but Wanda doesn’t intervene. That’s when Tony can’t hold back; it’s when he starts to cry.  
  
He’s rocking back and forth, arms braced on either side of his head, and no one says a word. His sobbing is too loud; no one is speaking. He can’t think of a way to make them understand that won’t make them hate him. He wants – he’s weak. He would sell his soul for a kind word, a kind touch. He’s weak. God he wants to die. He wants it all to end.  
  
“You’re idiots,” Wanda says, fiercely “you’re fools.” She grabs Clint’s wrist, pulls him forward, and presses his calloused palm to Tony’s brow; he stills, shivering, coiled in case someone tries to strike him. But no one does. And he shudders, bent away from Clint’s hand, when Clint stumbles back as if burnt.  
  
He vomits, on the tiled floor. Even Tony is jarred with the suddenness of it. “Tell them,” Wanda orders “tell them what you see.”  
  
Clint is still retching, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. “Don’t do that,” he croaks “don’t ever do that again.”  
  
“Is this a man who is somehow in denial of his sins? Or who has purposely set out to put you in harms way? Has he ever,  _ever,_ acted in any way which would intentionally harm you or your family? Any of you?”  
  
“You,” Sam says quietly. “He harmed you, and your brother.”  
  
Wanda seems conflicted, momentarily. And then she stands. “No,” she says “I killed my brother. I killed every civilian that died in Sovokia. That was me. I put it in Stark’s head, I twisted his thoughts. Just like I did you,” she gestures at Natasha “and you,” she points at Steve. “Don’t think for a moment I didn’t know what I was doing; I was angry. I wanted to do him harm. So I poisoned his mind. Tony – you all have fears. I showed him something I knew would scar him. I may as well have created Ultron with my own two hands.”  
  
Wanda seems to stutter, falter. Again, no one speaks.  
  
“I am no more innocent than he is. I chose – I chose Strucker, long before Stark chose Ross. And he had better reason to do so than me; at least he wanted to do good. I was angry, I wanted revenge, don’t you see? Do any of you see? We can fight, and we can blame, but there is no one person to take the fall. Barton, I’ve shown you. You’ve seen. Is this a man who capitulated easily? Or is it a man who stood up for what he thought was right, against his friends, against the government. Already ill when I put murder in his head.  _Planted himself like a tree,”_ she says pointedly “and even then, after he had been abandoned, and tortured, and left for dead, put on trial, ready for death, even then did he try and protect the people he’d fought against, who, after everything, he still regarded as his friends?”  
  
Wanda slumps, exhausted. “Enough,” she says, quietly. “Enough is enough. Give him what he wants: let him die. Let him die, or see that the past is the past, and it can’t be changed. Don’t leave him to suffer anymore. The guilt would kill me,” she breathes. “It would kill me if I knew this man had to suffer anymore as a result of my actions, my bitterness, my anger.”  
  
Tony hasn’t stopped crying. He keeps rocking, fists pressed to his temples, as if this will make them go away. “I’m sorry,” he sobs “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” There’s spittle running down his chin, mucus from his nose. No one moves, and Tony can’t take it. Someone takes the wires from his chest, and then another person takes his hands from his head, wipes the mess from his face.  
  
A glass of water is held to his lips and he sucks, grateful. “I’m sorry,” he says again, to whoever is holding it for him. “Please forgive me.”  
  
“I forgive you,” the person says, although Tony doesn’t know who it is. He’s aware that T’challa is standing, and God, this must be such an unsavoury affair for a king, Tony never would have wanted to put up with this when he was rich and people respected him, although T’challa is a better man than Tony ever was or ever will be.  
  
“Move him upstairs,” he hears him say lowly “a room with a window. Let him see air, his penance is done. He’s been punished enough.”

Tony wants to cry that it’s more than he deserves, that T’challa doesn’t know what he’s saying. He wants to scream that he’s wasting air, that he has nothing left to live for, but he doesn’t want to impose. He rests his head against the wall, presses it into the corner, and the stone is cool against his fevered skin. Breathe in, one two three four five six seven eight nine ten, and out, one two three four five six seven eight nine ten. Someone pulls the thin blanket over his shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm loving the discussion u guys have in the comments, there were some really insightful ones on the last chapter. honestly anything that can give me a new perspective with which to look at civil war is appreciated.
> 
> anyway, it's coming into my last exam season. i graduate on friday (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) and have prom, so i won't be uploading between now and then. maybe saturday evening? after that, chapters will have to spread out for a few weeks, because i'll be, you know, studying for exams, which should all be wrapped up in abt three weeks. i'm then going on holiday, but i'll have time to write, right? 
> 
> hopefully i won't be dragging this story out for months and months. i want it to be done by the end of summer so i can focus on going to uni. anyway yeah, hope u enjoy, hope ur findin it nice and painful, pls comment! keep that debate goin #thatsweetDiscourse™


	8. Steve

Steve had needed it, maybe. He hadn’t cried like that in long time. It was nice to get it off his chest, admit some things to himself, to Natasha. He felt good, after. He feels good now. Not so bottled up, and liable to explode at any moment.  
  
Tony’s new room is light, airy, wide glass walls overlooking the jungle below and a tiled balcony where he likes to sit in the sun. T’challa had spared no expense; Tony had seen a dietician, a dentist, a chiropractor, and masseuse. Some kind of barber who had shaved his beard and trimmed his hair and made him look like  _Tony_ again, some kind of magician who filed away the lines of stress from his face and made him look young again.  
  
Which isn’t to say he’s better, necessarily, but for the past week Tony has shown them that he’s happy to be left alone, content to read on his balcony with the sun shining in his hair.  
  
  
  
Steve had been the one who helped move him up. He’d fallen asleep there, on the bed in the cell, but Steve hadn’t wanted to let him wake up there again. It seemed needlessly cruel, now, to have let him linger there for so long.  
  
Truth is, it reminds him of Bucky, okay? Bucky, who after he came back from torture, would flinch at shadows, avoid eyes. Steve doesn’t – God knows, he’s screwed up. They all are. But that’s a very specific type of trauma that – thank God – he’s never quite experienced. And he knows it takes a lot to screw you up that badly.  
  
So they’d bundled up his few belongings, he and Natasha. Smoothed the blanket over his shoulders and carefully levered him up, half-sleeping, but awake. “M’ sorry,” Tony mumbled “M’ so sorry.”  
  
“It’s okay,” Natasha had answered quietly. “No one’s angry now, Tony.”  
  
She carried his books, while Steve lifted Tony into a firm hold. A staffer had shown them to his new quarters; air-conditioned, thank God, and they’d laid him in the bed. Left water on the side table, some fresh fruit.  
  
When Tony had woken, he was mildly embarrassed and not entirely welcome to their presence. “Just – I’m sorry,” he’d said “pretend whatever that was didn’t happen.”  
  
“It’s okay,” Natasha had smiled. “We’re used to it.”  
  
Tony had eyed her warily, but accepted the water she proffered. Downed it in one, like a shot. “My books,” he croaked “I mean – I know they’re not mine, but are they still – “  
  
“Here,” Steve had answered quietly. He’d held them out; Tony had accepted, not meeting his eye.  
  
“Thank you,” he’d murmured.  
  
  
Now, Steve carries a breakfast tray. His palms are sweating, why are his palms sweating? All that training, all that goddamn repression, and he still can’t stop his stomach from contracting nervously and the back of his neck prickling. He knocks on Tony’s door, raps his knuckles three times against the smooth metal, and when no one replies, he slides it open and enters anyway.  
  
Tony is on the balcony. Steve doesn’t think he’s slept at all. He’s sitting at the small table there, surrounded by books, a cup of coffee, wrapped in a blanket (probably against the slight chill of the night). He looks up when Steve enters, and blanches.  
  
“I brought breakfast,” Steve says quickly “I just wanted to say hi, I don’t have to stay if you’re busy but I think we should talk and talk soon before time goes on and we’ve never said anything at all.”  
  
Tony studies him. Then, he lifts the books off of the table and settles them on the floor next to his feet, gestures at the chair. It’s an Old-Tony gesture, the kind of imperious concession he could have achieved a year ago. Now, it seems like a mockery, if a very good one at that. Steve smiles, and takes a seat, laying out the tray. “Thank you,” he says.  
  
Tony shrugs.  He picks at some of the toast Steve puts on his plate. “You make this?”  
  
“No, no. I just picked it up. But the eggs are amazing, and the tomatoes are so fresh. You should eat,” Steve says, and then, only mildly desperate “you have to eat something.”  
  
“Is that an order?”  
  
“Tony if you don’t eat they’ll put you on an IV again. And if that continues they’ll start force feeding you. You. Have. To. Eat.”  
  
“You discussed that with anyone?”  
  
“Natasha is worried,” Steve starts, and Tony rolls his eyes. “No, Tony – listen. Please. We are worried about you. We all are.”  
  
“Clint, too? Sam? God, that – sorry, I’m not trying to sound completely self-absorbed, I’d want me dead if I was in their – “  
  
“They don’t want you dead,” Steve interrupts “they’re just – going through a rough time. And sometimes it’s easier to blame someone else than look at facts.”  
  
“Yeah,” Tony mutters, and he still won’t meet Steve’s eye. “I know that.”  
  
Steve moves on. “Sam isn’t – he’s struggling, you know. We all are. No work, nothing to keep us active. T’challa tries, but we’re not a priority, not now. He keeps us safe, which is enough.”  
  
Tony doesn’t say anything. He’s looking out, over the balcony. Steve tries again.  
  
“Did you sleep at all last night?” He asks “Looks like you were here for awhile.”  
  
“No,” Tony says, shortly. “I like the air.”  
  
“And – and how are you feeling?”  
  
Again, silence. Tony chews his lower lip. “Were you ever going to tell me?” He asks.  
  
Steve blinks. “What?”  
  
“About my parents. Were you ever going to tell me? Would there have ever been a situation when you thought it was the right time?” Tony doesn’t sound scathing, just genuinely curious, and a little sad.  
  
“I…” Steve doesn’t know. “Yes, eventually.”  
  
“Really?” Tony asks “I need you to understand that my… reaction, to Bucky. In Siberia. That is not… it’s not typical, of me.” His words are slow, stunted, like it’s taking an overwhelming effort to place them in the right order. “I flew there with… every intention to, to extend the hand of friendship.”  
  
Steve thinks Tony has been rehearsing these words for a long time.  
  
“I realized that Bucky was not behind – was not behind what happened with T’chakka. I, objectively, was aware that he had been brainwashed. But – you have to understand – it had been a very long week, a very – “ there’s a bead of sweat making it’s way down Tony’s brow, and he still won’t look Steve in the eye “very  _difficult_ week. I’d been given deadlines to bring you in and failed. Ross was threatening to have me imprisoned. I – Pepper was gone, Rhodey – “ Tony shuts his eyes like he can’t bear thinking about it “it doesn’t matter. I had thought, if I flew out to Siberia, I could compromise. Your way.”  
  
Tony wipes his hand over his brow, blinks rapidly. “When my parents died,” he continued “I wasn’t – ready. For their death, or for what it meant. Taking over SI, having to  _work –_ I had been traveling, Switzerland, Japan, I’d settled in England to do a post-grad at Cambridge. I know – you, you grew up fast, but I was – entirely, unprepared, for what their death meant, as well as – obviously, losing them. I thought I’d have more time. That I’d be able to make up with my dad, that my mom – she could still be alive now, you know?” And Tony looks at him for the first time. “After I heard they died, I did not – process, well. I denied it for months. Even at the funeral, I couldn’t give a speech, because Obie was frightened I’d embarrass everyone by saying they were still alive, and that they’d be coming back soon, you know?” Tony rubs his hair back over his head. “I mean, I got over it, obviously. Painfully, slowly. I never really… uh, this is hard to explain. I didn’t – I couldn’t take responsibility. Which I why I spend thirty years just, in haze. Obie ran the company, and I let him, because I was  _terrified_ of responsibility, accountability, of what having all this power meant. Which – well, which brings me back to Siberia. Because, I watched the video, and my first instinct wasn’t to be angry at Barnes. It was to be angry at you.”  
  
Tony looks up, then. He fixes Steve straight in the eyes. “You lied to me. You told me were a team. You told me we should be honest with each other. And then you lied to be. For Bucky. The team you said we were a part of, that you called your family, you let it all go for him. All the time, and money, and effort I put in, you let that go. I don’t consider myself to be one of your closest friends, please do not mistake this for the delusion that I was somehow more important to you than Barnes. But the Avengers? I figured keeping the world safe and from harm would take priority. And when I saw that clip… I was angry, because losing my parents hurt. I was angry because you had lied. I was angry that you have chosen Barnes over me and everyone else. And then, that anger, in a bizarre, irrational way, targeted itself at Bucky. Because, if he hadn’t existed, this wouldn’t have happened. And I’d had – a fucking rough week,” Tony spits “it had been difficult. And so yes, I was wrong. And yes it was irrational. But you know what, I’m only human. I’m only a fucking human, and sometimes I screw up.”  
  
Tony’s voice is trembling. His has to dab at his brow with a tissue. It’s the most he’s said in weeks.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Steve says, eventually. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about your parents. I’m sorry I didn’t – try to compromise. Trust you enough. I realize you had best interests of the whole at heart, and I’m sorry. You don’t deserve what happened to you,” Steve says with a quiet passion “and I wish I had broken you out sooner.”  
  
Tony nods. “And I’m sorry,” he says “that I didn’t listen when you told me the Accords were the wrong way to fix things. Because you were right. Ross was never trustworthy, and there was nothing that could change that. Not 117 countries, not your stamp of approval, not – not the UN nothing. Because with Ross as the one who holds us to account…” Tony pauses, looks up. “I’d do it again, though,” he murmurs. “If it means setting up accountability. If sitting in that cell is what it will take to set up a strong system of oversight and balance, then I’d do it again. Because the safest hands are never our own. You know that.”  
  
The air feels lighter. Tony is picking at his toast. “We should have done this sooner,” Steve says. “I mean – I should have. You tried. I didn’t let you.”  
  
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Tony says quietly, and he’s back looking down at the ground.  
  
They eat in silence for awhile, but it isn’t too awkward. There’s no pressure to keep conversation, because Steve knows Tony would never offer it. “You should see someone,” Steve says, spreading jam on his toast. “About what happened on the Raft.”  
  
“See someone?”  
  
“A doctor. A psychiatrist.”  
  
“The last psych I had used to zap me for fun. I’d rather not.”  
  
Steve pauses. “Was this – on the Raft?”  
  
“Mmm,” Tony makes a non-committal noise, surprising Steve suddenly by spreading a thick helping of butter onto his bread. “He’d ask me, I don’t know, stupid questions. Sometimes about you,” Tony says guardedly “other times thing from a list he’d just printed off the internet, you know, general knowledge stuff. If I didn’t know the answer…” Tony lets his knife clatter to the table. “That’s how I got these burns.” He gestures to his wrists; skin that’s crusted, some parts black, others reddened and trying to heal.  
  
“Would he – I mean, why?”  
  
Tony shrugs. “I think he just did it for kicks.” He takes a large bite of toast. “He would ask other things, too. There were other… treatments.”  
  
“What kind?” Steve forces himself to asks. “How else would they – “  
  
“What do you want to hear? You want to know how they’d douse me in water and then shock me like a rat? Or stick electrodes to my temples and ask me questions I couldn’t possibly answer?”  
  
“No, no – Jesus, Tony, I don’t want to, to  _gloat._ I’m asking, because we need to know okay? There are people here who can help you, now. People who want to help.”  
  
Tony lifts his water and his hand is shaking. “I don’t know if this is some kind of nervous reaction,” he mutters “it comes and goes, I don’t know – if there’s nerve damage or what, but whatever it is means I can barely write, let alone – let alone work, I used to have the steadiest hands in the world, years and years of practice and fine work and for  _what?”_ He spits.  
  
“We can get you help,” Steve says quietly “physiotherapists, doctors, there’s nothing T’challa won’t – “  
  
“You think I don’t know that!?” Tony snaps, suddenly,  _loudly._ “You think I don’t know all about your new sugar daddy? Fuck sake, Steve,  _I_ used to have money, I used to be the person who bought the doctors and the therapists and bankrolled all your stupid fucking missions to find your long-lost friend, I – “ Tony stands, and pushes on the table, knocks all the food to the side “I – “ he blinks, breaths heavily. “I didn’t mean – I don’t – “ he steps back, and his eyes go glassy.  
  
“It’s okay,” Steve says, quickly. “I know, you’re stressed. It’s a natural response – “  
  
“Stop it,” Tony whispers “stop being so – so fucking understanding, just – “  
  
Steve’s mind races for an answer. “If you won’t see anyone we can get you a garage,” he blurts.  
  
Tony pulls up short. “What?” He asks, anger evaporated.  
  
“T’challa mentioned it. He said – there’s a workshop, here. He said it has everything you could ever need. If you want to help – I mean, if you’re ready, you can take it. It used to be used by doctors or something, the engineers that lived here before we took their place. But it’s been empty for the past nine months and – “  
  
“I’ll – yes,” Tony says, quickly “what do I have to do? Is there anything that needs to be done? Wakanda – they have all the tech they could need, right, they don’t really need me. No one really needs – “  
  
“There are some things they don’t have plans for. Sam’s wings, Natasha’s bites. Those guns you fixed up for us, a bow for Clint. A suit for you. A shield for me. We’ve got weapons, but they’re not – our weapons, you know? And you always did it best.”  
  
“That could keep me going a long time,” Tony says, almost hopeful. “That would – it would be real good, you know? If I could… keep busy, like that.”  
  
He’s staring at Steve openly with a look of absolute pain and longing. There’s orange juice on the floor, eggs, bread, tomatoes and bacon. His hair is sticking up at odd angles, and there are dark circles under his eyes, but Steve knows, then, that if he gets this garage he’ll be alright.  
  
“I’ll ask a staffer to set it up as soon as possible,” Steve says “if you feel you’re ready.”  
  
“I’m ready, I’m ready, just – say the word. I’ll need measurements, though, fresh ones from Sam to fix up the straps. I mean, material-wise… no no, stick to the plans first, you know? Don’t get ahead of myself, because we’ll have to make some prototypes. God it’ll be weird working without all the schematics, it’ll take a lot longer, but still, that’s good right? That’s good.” Tony is chattering, smoothing down his hair. “You don’t know what this would mean to me,” he says, turning back to Steve “you really don’t know.”  
  
The intensity makes Steve uncomfortable. He wants to ask Tony if he’ll ever be able to make Bucky a new arm, but it doesn’t feel right; Steve doesn’t want to stall this hard-earned ceasefire.  
  
“I’ll send someone to clean this up, okay?” Steve stands, carefully stepping over the mess. “You’re welcome to join us for dinner, you know. You’re not – a pariah. No one’s angry.”  
  
“That’s a lie,” Tony sighs “didn’t we just agree not to lie to each other?”  
  
“I mean it,” Steve says earnestly. “Sam is… Sam’s difficult with everyone now, me included. Clint’s come around. You should talk to him.”  
  
“What, after he saw inside my head? No thanks,” Tony mutters. He picks up his books, sighing, and wipes down the covers where they’ve been splattered with juice. “I’ll – I like being alone,” he says quietly “I just like the peace.”  
  
“Whatever you need,” Steve replies, quick. “Just know you’re welcome.”  
  
“I’m sorry I ruined breakfast.”  
  
Steve looks up. Tony is smiling. It’s a joke, he’d just – that was a joke.  
  
“Don’t worry about,” Steve says. “There will be other mornings.”  
  
  
So Steve is feeling pretty good, after that. He’s whistling when he asks the staff to fix up the garage for Tony, still happy when he makes his way to the training room, and ready to smash the fuck out of some Kevlar mannequins.  
  
Sam is there. He isn’t training, not exactly. He sitting against a bench, wrapping a bandage around his fists and pouring over some kind of magazine. “’Morning,” Steve says cheerfully, and he hitches a punching bag over his shoulder for warm up.  
  
“You with Stark?” Sam asks without taking his eyes off of the page. “I heard you bought him breakfast.”  
  
“Yeah. Straightened some things out.”  
  
Sam grunts, looks up. “Oh yeah? Well good for you.”  
  
“Sam…”  
  
“No no, don’t let me stop you. Continue, go on,” Sam stands, gesturing at the punch bag. “Knock yourself out, don’t quit on my account.”  
  
“What the hell is wrong with you?”  
  
He snorts. “Nothing, Stevie, nothing, you just – “ he holds up his hands, grins, but it’s sardonic and flat with too much teeth. “You have fun, now, since you’re having such a great day, Tony’s back on your team, everything’s great now, right? Well, okay. See you around, I guess.”  
  
He stands. Steve rests a hand on his arm. “Sam,” he says, voice low. “You’ve got to tell me what this is about. It’s been months, what’s happened to you?”  
  
“What’s happened to me? What’s that supposed to mean?”  
  
“I mean you’ve changed.”  
  
Sam stares at him for a long time. “No,” he says slowly “no, Steve – you just don’t know me that well.”  
  
Steve is mildly taken aback. “What?”  
  
“I followed you into the jaws of death. Literally. I mean – Steve the first time we ran a mission together I knew you, what, two days? Steve you don’t understand what you inspire in people. You have… zero recognition of your own power.”  
  
“Sam, if you’re trying to suggest – “  
  
“Steve I trusted you. I always trusted you to know what you were doing, and then – even in the Raft, I knew you would break us out. I knew it. I trusted you, we all did.”  
  
“And now?”  
  
Sam shrugs, claps Steve on the shoulder. “And you led us here: fine. It was a good choice. But you know, I gave up a lot for you. So did Clint. And Wanda. We  _all_ gave up a lot for you, so you could keep your friend safe. And where’s your friend been for the past nine months?”  
  
“He doesn’t – he doesn’t trust himself, Sam.”  
  
“Yeah. So he’s on ice. And the thing is, if he’s just gonna stay on ice for the rest of eternity, why did we go to so much effort to help him in the first place?”  
  
Steve struggles to just – keep calm. “Sam they’re working on it.”  
  
“Working on it? How’s that? He’s not one of Stark’s AIs, you can’t debug his programming. He needs therapy, he needs – he needs psychiatric help, not to just sit in a box forever. Christ, I would know, right? I mean, I think that Rhodes lost his legs so Bucky could live, and yet – “  
  
“I know,” Steve says “Christ, I know okay? I’m aware of all of this, but I can’t – “  
  
“You wanted to know why I was angry,” Sam interrupts “that’s why. That’s why I’m pissed, Steve. We all trusted in you. We thought we were following you for something good, resisting the government, well we weren’t. We were helping you help your friend. And I wouldn’t have minded, I wouldn’t have even cared if – “ Sam lowers his voice “if there was something to fucking show for it, alright?”  
  
Steve is silent. Sam leans back. “Look,” he says “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you need to get your head straight. Every second we’ve sat here, Ross is tightening his fist. You hear the rumblings? They’re talking about impeaching Ellis. His whole term has been a fucking disaster, his vice president funded terrorists, Steve, he made Ross his secretary of state. If Ellis makes it to the next election, who do you think will be running against him?”  
  
“Sam, I can’t stop this anymore than – “  
  
“Yeah well we can’t sit here, twiddling our thumbs, while it all goes to shit. That’s not what the Rogers I knew would have done. We didn’t fight so we’d get to live in anonymity, we fought so we’d get to act when we knew we needed to. So.”  
  
“So.” Steve agrees. “So you’re right.”  
  
“I – what?”  
  
“Yeah,” Steve sighs “I – yeah. I’m trying that, nowadays you know? Trying to… understand. But you’re right. I know it. You think I want Bucky in there anymore than you? Christ you think I went to all that – it’s insulting to Tony. To have him go through that so I could keep Bucky  _safe_ only to have him – “  
  
“That bitch,” Clint gasps, and he’s pacing, slamming through the gym doors, hands curled in his hair. “God that – that  _bitch,_ I’ve got someone else’s thoughts in my head, I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I  _breathe_ without seeing – “  
  
“Without seeing what?” Steve asks, and he’s calm, rests a palm on Clint’s shoulder. Sam blinks, is pushed back by a frantic Barton, and Steve justs tries to – to project, to calm him down. “Hey, hey now, relax. Let’s talk about this rationally – “  
  
“Without seeing  _him,”_ Clint spits. “Tony. Without his – his  _thoughts_ in my head, God, I – “  
  
Steve tries to steer Clint to a bench, set him down. “Sam,” he grits, and “breathe,” he adds. “Explain. You’re seeing his – what, his thoughts? What does that mean? Why don’t you – “  
  
“I shut my eyes, and I hear – “ Clint looks away. “I shouldn’t say, you know? It feels… intensely personal. It doesn’t feel good, telling you. Like a betrayal of trust.”  
  
Steve pauses, thinks. “Is there something you saw that we need to know?” He asks, carefully.  
  
Clint shakes his head rapidly. “No. No, other than – other than those bastards  _ruined_ him. I can’t –  _God,”_ he groans again, rests his head in his hands. “What do we do? How do you help a person whose suffered like that? Christ I’m gonna throw up, I’m gonna – “  
  
It’s Sam who pushes Clint’s head between his knees, squeezes the back of his neck. “Bring it up,” he says dispassionately “go on.” Clint’s sick is black, with whatever alcohol he’s been drinking, and Steve has to ask T’challa about getting rid of their supplies now that Tony’s back and –  
  
Clint seems to get a hold of himself, all at once. He huffs, sits up, drags a hand down his face. “It’s okay,” he says “I’m okay.”  
  
And Steve and Sam share a glance, look down. “Okay,” they both repeat, simultaneously.  
  
“Wanda – she isn’t a bitch. Don’t tell her I said that she’s – a lovely girl. Sorry. I was – I am drunk. I am very drunk.”  
  
“Why don’t you try and explain?” Steve asks again, and he sits, even though his stomach is in his mouth because he knows what’s coming and he doesn’t want to hear it.  
  
“What is there to say?” Clint croaks. He rubs under his nose, eyes rimmed dark and red. He shrugs. “The poor bastard. He needs a doctor. And – a holiday. I didn’t realize, you know, I never –  _thought._ Did you?” He asks, and he’s looking at Steve. “Did you notice? How… how he was going? Before the Accords, I mean. We should have seen the signs, should have  _helped_ when we had the chance I just – “ Clint waves a hand, pinches his bridge like he just can’t bear to say anymore. “I’m tired,” he finishes “and I can’t fucking – forgive myself, now.”  
  
Steve thinks that they’re all losing their minds.  
  
“I know,” he says quietly “yeah, I know. But we made our choices.”  
  
“That we did,” Sam agrees dully. “I’m not saying – I’m not saying Stark is innocent.”  
  
“Go on,” Steve prompts.  
  
“But I’m also – you know, I’m not an idiot, Steve. Look at us, man. Look at me. Look what’s – happened,” he manages lamely. “Never thought I was the type of guy to be an asshole, but this whole Accords thing? Changed me. You too. And you, Clint.”  
  
Clint nods. “Yeah,” he croaks “yeah well I can’t disagree.”  
  
Steve doesn’t say anything else; he doesn’t mention his outburst to Natasha, or the fact that some nights he doesn’t sleep at all, goes over fantasies in his head where it’s 1950 and he’s famous and respected and growing old and Bucky’s married to a nice girl and they both have families and eat lunch together on Sundays –  
  
He’s not allowed to do that, he thinks, because Sam and Clint are both looking at him like he’s supposed to have answers, and Steve doesn’t know how to articulate that, on a bone-deep level, he does not want to rule, he doesn’t want to be the person they trust, and he wishes that they’d stop  _believing him,_ and  _following him,_ and thinking for even a second that he has any answers left to give.  
  
“Looks like we all need therapy,” he jokes weakly, and it’s bad, bad joke. Zero comic timing, probably hits too close to home. But they smile, and then laugh anyway, because he’s Steve, and they allow him things like that.


	9. Natasha

Natasha’s heart is beating in her throat. He’s staring at her – down at her, because she is so small – and he’s asking her questions.  _No,_ he says,  _today is English only. I ask, what is your name, and you say?_  
  
The words trip on her tongue; she knows this, of course she knows this, but she is only five. It is hard to learn a new language like this, and she is cold. She has not eaten in three days. He is holding the ruler in his fist, and she says her name. He hits her arm, sharp, and she flinches but doesn’t cry out. She is not allowed to cry out: this she has learnt.  
  
_No,_ he says calmly.  _That is not your name. That is the name your traitor parents called you by; tell me, now, what is your real name?_  
  
“ _Natal – “_ another crack; this time the ruler cuts into her head.  
  
“ _In. English.”_  
  
She swallows, starts again.  _“Natasha,”_ she says “ _Natasha Alianova Romanoff – “_  
  
Natasha gasps awake; a long, drawn out thing, back arching, mouth wide, stomach concave. She has not dreamed like that in a long, long time.  
  
She’s sweat through the bed despite the air conditioning; it’s not quite light out, her balcony coated in lightening dark. She knows she will not sleep any longer tonight.  
  
It’s a luxury, and one she is not used to. There has never been a time in her life where she has been able to sleep through the night and not rise early, or not be disturbed. Now, although she has the time, her body won’t let her. It’ll taunt her with nightmares until she’s forced to wake up.  
  
God, she can still feel the ruler slap against her cheek, the sting of it against her palm.  
  
She wraps one of the thin sheets around her shoulders; the compound is dark, silent. No one is awake at this time, not even Steve. Natasha finds herself padding down the tiled corridor till she reaches the sitting room where they usually congregate. She expects to find it empty.  
  
Tony is there, also wrapped in a sheet. She expects him to be writing, or reading, or doing something – she doesn’t know, intellectual, or tortured. But he’s watching TV with a mug in his hands, chuckling slightly at whatever’s being said. “Something funny?” She asks, and he jerks.  
  
“Oh,” he mutters “you.”  
  
“Weren’t expecting anyone?”  
  
“Not really. I’ve been doing this for the past week and no one’s interrupted me yet.”  
  
“What are you watching?”  
  
Tony turns back to the TV, presses pause. “Late night comedy. I record them in advance. You know, I don’t know why we don’t have TVs in our rooms, but…” Tony shrugs “reminds me of home.”  
  
Natasha nods and folds her arms. “May I sit?”  
  
Tony shrugs.  
  
She perches carefully on the opposite side of his couch. “So what’s going on?”  
  
“President Ellis,” Tony says “some people are saying he should be impeached.”  
  
“Should he?”  
  
“The man’s an idiot but he’s a harmless idiot. We all know who’s really calling the shots.”  
  
“You seem better.”  
  
Tony makes a non-committal noise. “I guess.”  
  
“You can come here during the day you know. People want to see you. It’s good to socialize.”  
  
“I know that.”  
  
Natasha leans back, curls her feet up onto the couch. Keeps her distance. “I’m sorry about what happened last week. The interrogation. It… it was badly done. We shouldn’t have crowded you like that, made you – it’s just that Steve had to be there, and he wanted me there, and then Clint wanted to see if you were telling the truth and so Sam said he’d come to. And obviously Wanda was – I mean, she’s helpful, isn’t she?” Natasha states guardedly.  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?”  
  
“Has she been… helping you?”  
  
“Helping me with what.”  
  
“Sleep, Tony.”  
  
“She was. Things are better now. Clearer.”  
  
“That’s good.”  
  
“I wish you’d stop doing this,” Tony mutters “nothing you say is going to – make it better.”  
  
“Make what better?”  
  
“What you did.”  
  
Natasha doesn’t sigh, just purses her lips. “You and Steve sorted it out, didn’t you?”  
  
“We spoke.”  
  
“What did Steve do that I didn’t?”  
  
“Steve didn’t pretend to be on my side.”  
  
“God why does that  _bother you_ so much,” Natasha says, finally letting some irritation creep into her voice. “It’s not like that’s revolutionary, it’s what I do Tony.”  
  
“And why does it bother you that I’m not forgiving you?”  
  
“Because – you always have before. And I don’t – I feel bad. For what happened. Which is why I keep trying to apologise. You forgave  _Steve,_ I mean – “  
  
“I didn’t. Forgive Steve. I don’t – have to forgive Steve, he didn’t – if he made a mistake, it was a stupid one, and it was misguided. I’m happy to accept that he’s human. You, though, you… pretended to help me, Natasha.” Tony shakes his head, rubs his hand through his hair. “You know I trusted you, stupidly, and you – betrayed me. So I won’t ever trust you again. What’s that saying? Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me? Yeah well this is like the third of fourth time now, so. Not gonna happen.”  
  
Natasha’s response is measured. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”  
  
“They kept asking me about you. They wanted to know where you’d gone,” and Tony’s laugh is bitter. He actually turns his head to look at her. “I just want to let you know that if I had that information, I would have sold you out in a heartbeat. And I wouldn’t have felt bad about it, at all.”  
  
That actually hurts. “You’d like it?” She asks quietly. “If they did to me exactly what they did you?”  
  
Tony’s lips go thin, his face pale and clammy. “No,” he mutters “not that.”  
  
“Would it make you happy? If I offered myself up?” Natasha is only half joking. “I could go to Ross today, I’m already on the most wanted list. He’d stick me up in a cell and shock me for – “  
  
Tony has covered his face with his hands, is rocking, hunched, and Natasha hates herself for always having to provoke a reaction. She hates herself. He just wanted to watch TV, because it reminded him of home, and she came and ruined it. Why does she do it? What the hell is wrong with her? Is she wrong in the head? Natasha blinks, as if coming out of a trance. “I was joking,” she says weakly “I wouldn’t – I’d never do that.”  
  
It surprises her that, when Tony looks up, he hasn’t been crying. Instead, he looks mildly pained. “You know, my head keeps – when I think about it, it – or when I’m angry. When I feel any strong emotion, actually, my head sort of… fuzzes out.” He huffs, tries to smile. “It’s – it gets hard to think. And then I look like an idiot, you know? Mumbling and…” Tony sighs. He sits back up. “Look, Natasha – “  
  
“It’s alright. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have – pushed. I think all of us have frayed ends, recently.”  
  
“I feel like you’re trying to push me.”  
  
Natasha bites her lips. “Yeah,” she says “well, maybe you were right, some habits die hard.”  
  
Tony chews on his thumb. Then, he picks up the remote, and un-pauses the show. They sit in silence, and Natasha even watches with him. She feels her eyes grow heavy. She sleeps, maybe, or falls into a light doze; either way, when she wakes up, the blanket is wrapped around her shoulders and Tony is gone.  
  
  
Clint doesn’t talk to her nowadays, if he can avoid it. That said, he doesn’t really talk to  _anyone;_ he sits in his suite and drinks. Natasha’s discussed it with Steve, who discussed it with Sam, and they’re all in agreement that it requires an intervention of sorts. Then again, what do you say to a man who has lost everything?  
  
In one of their many arguments, Natasha has tactfully reminded him that there was no real need for him to join in their war. And Clint has spit back, thrown bottles, and Natasha knows that’s because he realizes it’s true. Clint could never avoid a fight anymore than Natasha can avoid playing tricks with her friend’s minds; it’s compulsive, and half the time she’s not even aware she’s doing it.  
  
Steve feels bad. He says he feels like he led Clint to failure. He mentions that he’s talked about it with Sam, and that he feels the same way. He says, Steve led all them here, pariahs, to Wakanda, and all they have to show for it is Bucky, under ice. Natasha is inclined to agree, but she doesn’t say it out loud, because she doesn’t want to hurt Steve’s fragile feelings any more than they’ve already been torn.  
  
And so. Clint avoids her, avoids everyone, bearing the burden of his absolutely wrecked life. And Sam stops glaring at everyone so balefully, joins in more at meals, stops staring at Steve with stony eyes. Wanda comes and goes, half the time in her own world, spending too much time in Tony’s room to be healthy. Steve spends his days frustratingly idle, sometimes taking his meals with them, other times with Tony. And Natasha mediates; she wins trust, spins webs, does what she always has done. They muddle through.  
  
  
Natasha knows it’s important when she sees Tony sitting at the table. Steve never would have dragged him down if he didn’t  _need_ to be there; he’s clearly uncomfortable, sitting in the chair closest to the door with a space between his seat and Sam’s. Natasha takes the one in the middle.  
  
“What’s going on?” She asks “Steve called me down, but he didn’t – “  
  
“They caught Banner at the border.”  
  
Natasha’s heart stalls, and then beats in her throat. “Which border?”  
  
“The Wakandan. Christ, no, not – not the US border. God, then we’d really have a problem,” Sam mutters. “But they’re pulling him in. After checks, he’ll be here in – well, we think two to three days.”  
  
Natasha finds herself looking at Tony because he, out of all of them, is the only one who really understands. Bruce is back. Bruce is back. God, that – that  _asshole –_  
  
“You know what that means?” Steve says, and he’s having a hard time keeping a grin off his face. “We have enough to mount a force.”  
  
“A force?” Wanda questions “Now? Won’t it be – I don’t know, triggering war? That’s what T’challa said, that’s why we didn’t get To – “ she clears her throat, and looks down. “I mean, it’s why we left everything so long.”  
  
“I think what Steve means is you’ll finally have enough force to take out the facility without… loss, or whatever. It’ll be great, a show of unity, a show of…” he mumbles, trailing off, and looking at the floor.  
  
“Right,” Steve recovers for him. “Exactly. Tony, we’re going to need tech. I know you said – “  
  
“I won’t – that’s a lot to get done in three days,” Tony says uneasily. “I’ve just started plotting Sam’s wings and Natasha’s bites, that alone will take – a week at least. Granted, the shield won’t take as long but I haven’t got the time to – “ Tony stops short. “It can’t be done, basically,” he mutters “I could… I  _could_ maybe modify some guns.”  
  
“I can work on foot,” Sam says with a shrug “and there wouldn’t be much room for wings in hallways anyway. Hey Stark, you looked at maybe getting Redwing back up?”  
  
Tony’s eyes are drilling holes into the table, but his voice is steady. “I don’t like messing with AI.”  
  
Natasha waits for the ball to drop. Sam is going to say ‘since when?’ or ‘oh,  _now_ you choose to get picky?’ but instead he nods, shrugs. “Well we can always figure something out.”  
  
“This facility,” Natasha asks “it’s in DC?”  
  
“So we hear.”  
  
“We’re gonna need a little more than that, Steve,” Natasha says. “Something a bit more concrete. And we’ll need plans, maps, actual intel. I know you want to get out there, I know we want them back, but if we go in guns blazing and we fuck it up… Laura’s there. The kids.” It’s the closest she’ll get to ever admitting how fucking scared she is that they might be hurt and it’s partly her fault.  
  
“Tony can help,” Steve says, confidently.  
  
And all eyes turn to him; Natasha wonders how Steve knows this, have they been talking privately? Tony is sitting furthest away, but Natasha has a sudden feeling that he and Steve have been planning this alone all along. Sam seems to feel the same way. “You’ve talked about this already, haven’t you?”  
  
Tony’s eyes flit up and meet Steve’s, and then look back down. “No,” he says evenly “Steve mentioned it in passing, I said I obviously have experience with… hacking,” Tony winces at the word “and that I could maybe get the information we need. That’s all.”  
  
Sam swivels back to Steve. “You trust him?”  
  
“Absolutely.”  
  
Which settles it, really. Steve and Tony  _have_ already discussed it, and probably already come up with a plan, too. Which is – well, it’s nice to see that there’s no hard feelings there. Natasha, for her part, is mildly bitter. “Tony, how soon can you get that intel?”  
  
“Today, if you want. If you’ll let me near a computer with a strong enough ram.”  
  
“We’ll need T’challa’s authorization,” Sam says “we can’t go busting into the US mainframe and, I don’t know, finding something we shouldn’t. Not that this whole thing isn’t incredibly illegal. You have all considered that, right? Everything else… pretty bad, but possibly explainable. Hacking the government? That’s treason.”  
  
“Take it a day at a time,” Wanda says quietly. “If you never go home, you never go home. Wakanda is safe. We can always start again here.”  
  
“That won’t happen,” Steve says “it won’t.”  
  
“You have plan?” Tony asks, and again, Natasha gets the distinct impression they’ve talked about this already, because surprisingly, Tony sounds slightly goading.  
  
“I haven’t – no, not yet,” Steve admits “it’s not something for me to decide, Tony.”  
  
“Yeah,” he agrees, and says nothing else.  
  
Natasha smoothes over the sticky moment. “Wanda,” she says gently “you’ll have to stay here.”  
  
“I – why?”  
  
“Because you’re not ready,” Steve joins in. “Because last time – didn’t go so great. We don’t need to give anyone anymore excuses and, as it happens, we have the most to lose if you get taken in. It’s not a risk worth considering, because we won’t have the manpower to get you a second time.”  
  
“What about Clint?” Natasha asks “He’ll be going?”  
  
“You could have called me if there was a meeting, you know.” Clint’s eyes are darkened by circles, purpling. “Or did you call me? You might have, and I might have ignored you. But my good friend Temi assured me that it was important, so.”  
  
“Clint won’t be going,” Steve says slowly “because he’s too invested.”  
  
“Going where?” Clint grins, rests his elbows on the table and nudges Tony conspiratorially. “Do you think they talk about us behind our backs?”  
  
For his part, Tony doesn’t respond, and keeps his eyes fixed on the table. “You’re drunk,” Natasha comments.  
  
“Only a little, sweetheart.” Clint leans back, hands behind his head. “Bet Tony wonders where T’challa keeps the booze. Honestly man, I’ve been making it myself, and no one knows where I hide it. I – c’mon, Sam, man, don’t look at me like that! What? Why are you all – what?”  
  
“Bruce is back,” Steve says. “So we’re – we’re launching an attack.”  
  
“On what?”  
  
A long silence. “We’re getting them back, Clint.”  
  
He stares for a long time. “Don’t fucking mess with me.”  
  
“We’re not,” Natasha says gently, and she reaches over, rests a hand on her old friend’s arm. “Soon, Clint. Not tomorrow, but maybe even the day after. As soon as we can, we’ve waited enough.”  
  
“Laura?” Clint whispers. “The kids?”  
  
“Tony’s going to get intel as soon as he can.”  
  
Clint turns to him, swallows. “They’ve got your friends too. They’ve got Rhodey. Potts.”  
  
Tony keeps drawing his thumbs over each other. “Yeah,” he manages. “They do.”  
  
“Why can’t I come?” Clint asks “I don’t – I need to be there. For the kids.” He hiccups, and presses the back of his hand to his mouth. “I – “  
  
“You’re not combat ready. At all,” Steve adds “and besides, you’re too… invested. Trust me, Clint.”  
  
“So what, me Wanda and Tony are staying back?”  
  
Steve’s eyes find Tony’s again and – seriously, what have they been planning? “Yes,” Steve answers “the three of you.”  
  
Clint turns to Tony again. “That okay with you?”  
  
“I can’t – it’s not like I – have a suit,” Tony manages. “And I’d fuck up, I’d – “ he clears his throat, runs a hand over his hair. “No, no,” he says “I should stay.”  
  
“You’ll be three men short,” Clint says “I’m not – look, I’m not saying I don’t understand, that I won’t be – a  _liability,_ but if having me there – “  
  
“We’ll have a hulk,” Natasha breaks in. “We’ll have third generation Stark weapons. We’ll have unprecedented intel. Trust me, we will be okay.”  
  
“And if one of you gets taken?” Wanda asks “All of you? What happens then?”  
  
“Then it will have been worth it,” Steve states firmly. “We’ve got civilians in there. Kids. Maria, and – “  _Sharon._ “We all know what the risks are, don’t we?”  
  
“If we didn’t we wouldn’t be here,” Sam says dully.  
  
  
Bruce arrives two days later. It’s raining, heavy, and his hair is damp with it. He sees her, across the entrance hall, arms crossed and waiting. He looks nervous, in that inescapable way he has about him, and he shuffles his hands over themselves, bag slung over a shoulder. He raises a hand in greeting.  
  
Natasha allows herself a small smile. “You took your time.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Bruce takes in large, marbled foyer “I was just having so much fun. Is this my welcoming committee?”  
  
“Steve’s got everyone busy. We’re planning an assault on Washington DC, so I hope you bought your stretchy pants.”  
  
Bruce winces. “What, already? It’s been five minutes.”  
  
“Not for us. If you ask me, Steve’s just happy to have something to do.”  
  
“What’s the assault for?” Bruce asks, and Natasha takes one of his bags, which is almost painfully light. “I don’t want to be the new kid, but if Wakanda attacks the US in an open show of aggression…”  
  
“We’ve already been in. To get Tony.”  
  
“He’s here?! Why didn’t you – what, he didn’t want to say hello?”  
  
“Tony isn’t – he’s working, too. He – “ Natasha stalls, lowers her voice. “You know he was arrested?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Natasha stares. “Where the hell have you been?!”  
  
“Deep under, if that’s what you’re asking. What do you mean  _arrested,_ why was he – “  
  
“The war, Bruce. The Civil War. You – you heard about that, right? The Accords? What happened with the UN? You heard about – “  
  
“Well – yes, obviously, I wouldn’t be here otherwise. No one told me Tony was arrested or – wait, so why are we going back home?”  
  
“Because Ross has all of them. Laura and the kids, Maria Hill, Sharon Carter, Rhodey. He has Pepper, Bruce.”  
  
Bruce groans. “Oh – shit, oh God. If I had known…”  
  
“You would have come back sooner?”  
  
“Yes! Yes, yes, I would have – “  
  
“No you wouldn’t,” Natasha says smoothly. “I know you wouldn’t have. You never really wanted to be a part of what we had.”  
  
“And what are you, the spokesperson for team unity and familial relations? Christ Natasha, the idea that you think I would purposefully ignore – “  
  
“I’m just saying a lot of us didn’t get to run away,” and Natasha pauses because, well, she did. But that’s not the point. “They tortured him, you know. They tortured Tony pretty bad. We thought – we thought he’d been leaking Wakandan intel to Ross, or that he had spies, but I mean that was fucking crazy, Tony? Some kind of spymaster? Our heads got all twisted, we wanted a scapegoat and… and Tony isn’t the same anymore. He was your best friend once. You’ll see now, it’s like talking to a new man, imagine, the last time you got to talk to Tony Stark before he died was – “ Natasha’s throat is thick. “What I’m saying,” she begins again “is it was – fucking shitty of you to run away. After what I told you, after what – we might have had.”  
  
Bruce raises an eyebrow. “You don’t believe that, Natasha.”  
  
“Why wouldn’t I?”  
  
“Because you pushed me down a silo. You’re manipulative and you manipulate. You’re doing it right now. You don’t know how to stop.”  
  
“I don’t – “ Natasha frowns “I’m not – “ Natasha realizes, suddenly, that she really is. She’s trying to get him on her side. Why does she do that, Christ –  
  
“Look,” Bruce said “what happened, between us. It was a nice dream, wasn’t it? It was hopeful, I – I don’t want you to take me back, after what happened. I would worry for you if you thought you still wanted me after how it ended. And I…” Bruce looks sad. “I don’t know, Nat. Maybe I’m just not going to get what I want. I – “ he shakes his head “God, this isn’t right, to be talking about this here. It’s been two minutes and – they tortured him, you said? Is he okay? Is that why he won’t come and visit, is he – is he angry with me? God, I – “  
  
“Let me show you to your room,” Natasha says. “Shower. Eat. I’ll have someone bring you something simple. Then, I’ll take you to see Tony. He’s… working hard. We’ve got to get our equipment sorted before we fly out, and if he isn’t fast it could delay us by a week.”  
  
“That’s – yeah,” Bruce sighs. “Okay.” He shuffles, re-adjusts his bags. He looks small. Natasha feels pity.  
  
  
They eat together, but don’t talk. Natasha watches the broad spread of Bruce’s forearm, the work of his jaw as he chews, and tries to dredge up old love. She tries to feel  _something._ She wonders how she ever could have loved this man.  
  
It’s Bruce who then asks to see Tony, and Natasha allows it. She doesn’t know how Tony will react. He’s bent over a desk, holding what looks like some kind of small soldering iron, soldering some kind of metal over a disk. It looks like delicate, fine work. Very skilful. Steve leaning over the table, trying to get Tony’s attention maybe, saying something so quietly she can’t even make it out. He jumps back when he spots them.  
  
“Bruce,” he blurts. “Good to see you, man.” He takes his hand, claps him on the shoulder. “You here to see Tony? He’s working so, good luck. We’ll catch up later, right?” Steve exits as fast as he can, barely giving Bruce time to raise a hand in response. Instead, he focuses on his old friend, working away.  
  
“Tony.” Bruce says. “Tony, hi.”  
  
He blinks a few times and then screws his face tightly, not looking up. “Banner,” he mutters shortly.  
  
“That’s it? No hello?”  
  
“I’m working,” he says, and wipes his hands down on a towel over his lap. “Come back later.”  
  
Bruce looks at Natasha, and she shrugs.  _I told you so._  
  
“That’s it, then. Nothing to say? How have you been, Tony. How’s work. How are you feeling.”  
  
“You know how it’s been,” Tony says, only slightly bitter. “Stop trying to play nice, I’m working. This is important.”  
  
“Tony,” Bruce croaks, suddenly. “I can’t believe… I can’t believe you thought supporting Ross would work.”  
  
Tony’s head drops. He lays his tool down on the desk, rests his brow on his palm. “It was,” he starts “I thought. It was, the, UN, and, and I wouldn’t. They wouldn’t – if,” Tony covers his face “Steve would have compromised, and – we could change, the, the Accords, it would have – sorry, sorry, let me think – “  
  
“It’s okay,” Natasha says. “You don’t have to answer.”  
  
Bruce looks at her. “Why not? Tony, if you thought – “  
  
His hand crashes, suddenly, through his delicate work; he crushes it in his palm, drives it into the table. “Stupid fucking,” he mutters, and Natasha can see it’s smoking.  
  
“Tony!” She calls out, and leaps, wrenching his hand away from the crumbled ruins of metal and wire. “Fuck, what the hell – Bruce, get a, a towel or something. Ice, get ice. You idiot, you’ve burnt your whole hand – “  
  
Tony groans, rests his brow on the table, in his arm, while Natasha holds one wrist in her hand. “My head,” he mumbles. “God it’s – can’t think.”  
  
“It’s okay,” Natasha soothes, and she squeezes the back of Tony’s neck as if alleviating a migraine “Bruce will be back soon and – here he is, here. Give me that,” she takes the ice and presses it raw to Tony’s palm. “Tell me about your head Tony, where does it hurt?”  
  
Tony wouldn’t acquiesce so easily if he wasn’t truly in pain. “Everywhere,” he slurs “my – sides, and front. Everywhere.”  
  
“I need you to be specific,” Natasha says bluntly. “Front or back? Is it like a pressure? Tony, you need to – “  
  
He slumps, goes completely lax, and Natasha’s panic sky-rockets.  _He’s blacked out._ There’s a trail of blood dripping from his nose. “Get a doctor,” she says, and her voice goes uncharacteristically shrill “Bruce – “  
  
He’s already gone. Natasha tries to push Tony back in the chair so he’s sitting, cleans the blood from his nose, presses fingers to his pulse, opens his eyes between her forefinger and thumb to see if his pupils expand. His skin is pale and clammy, he’s strongly cold and Natasha – Natasha has the dense feeling in her gut, an awful premonition that she’s experiencing the last few moments of his life.  
  
But they’re not. Steve bursts through the door and lifts him into a carry. Shortly after, doctors follow, and they take him to the medical center. He awakes some half and hour later, alert but complaining of pain in his head and nausea. He vomits. Bruce and Natasha watch from the window as they place him in an MRI. Hours go by.  
  
Tony sits on the edge of a gurney, and a doctor shines lights in his eyes, asks him questions. “How long have you felt the pain?” and “Can you tell us what brought it on?” Tony sleeps once more, lulled by the drip drop of morphine. The doctors show them the results.  
  
A lump, under Tony’s skull. Not too large. The doctors say they think – think – it should be benign. But Natasha runs through a checklist in her head: changes in speech, changes in personality, problems with memory, difficulty balancing… it could have grown while Tony was in captivity, they suggest. It could maybe even have been from before the war. All Natasha can think is fuck them, fuck them all for not noticing sooner.  
  
“It’s operable,” the doctor reassures. “We promise. Wakanda’s doctors are the best in the world, Captain, be assured of that. We have technology that can have him in and out of hospital in less than a day.” Natasha thinks he may be over-exaggerating, because the Wakandans she’s met are prone to that. They’re intensely friendly in a way Natasha is not used to, and this doctor especially seems eager to put their minds at rest. “It is good we’ve found it now,” he says “in the mean time, bed-rest and painkillers are the best course. It’s important that he doesn’t overstrain himself. This means… avoiding difficult conversations,” the doctor says, as if they don’t know. “And perhaps also he should stop work. It’s possible that this attack was brought on by the stress of trying to meet a deadline. Mostly, he needs support, which I’m sure you’re all willing to offer,” the doctor finishes pointedly.  
  
Steve nods, rubs his eyes. “Yes,” he says “yeah, absolutely. The weapons aren’t – they aren’t that necessary, he shouldn’t have – if he was struggling he could have  _said – “_  
  
“No,” Bruce says morosely “it was me. I shouldn’t have grilled him like that, it was unnecessary. He wanted to work, Steve, he needs it. I shouldn’t – “ Bruce rubs his glasses on his shirt and stands. “We should have been there from the start,” he says simply. “All of us. We shouldn’t have let Tony fall apart for our gain. We knew he was suffering, all of us did, and when he denied it we let him, even though we knew he was lying, because it was easier. It was easier not to think about who was bankrolling us or, or what he was going through. Granted, we all have problems. But if we had helped…” Bruce shrugs. “Look it’s been a long day. You two shouldn’t stay up so late, if we’ve got this big mission.”  
  
“Are we still going?” Natasha asks quietly as he leaves.  
  
“We… should.” Steve says. “It’ll be better for everyone. Imagine if Tony wakes up and sees Rhodes next to his bed, that – he would want us to help them. And I don’t think Clint can go on much longer without his family.”  
  
Natasha agrees. She peers through the window, into Tony’s room. The heart monitor beeps calmly, and he doesn’t seem hurt. Someone has bandaged his hand. “What were you two talking about, earlier. In the workshop.”  
  
Steve bristles slightly. “Nothing.” He says, in a way that means it was definitely something. What  _are_ they doing together when they’re alone? Plotting? Natasha won’t say – it’s good to see, it signals recovery, and rejuvenation, and hope, but what on earth is so personal they can’t involve anyone else?  
  
They sleep late. The next day, they finalize their plans from the intel Tony has scraped from Ross’s personal server. Clint actually smiles, Sam jokes. Even Steve grins, once, at something Bruce mutters under his breath. They visit Tony, and leave fruit by his bedside. Wanda sits with him, flicking lazily through a magazine and chewing gum. She wishes them luck.  
  
They set out at dawn.


	10. URGENT MESSAGE

~~Wanda this is Natasha – this is very important. Don’t let Tony see Potts, just don’t. I’ll explain later but everyone’s safe and we’re boarding now. Again, this is VERY IMPORTANT: you can’t let him see her, not yet, keep him in his room, I’m actually telling you to put him to sleep or do whatever it is you do with your hands, just until we figure this out alright??~~  
  
Okay. We’ve boarded now, and things are less hectic. We’ve got Rhodes, Potts, Sharon and Maria. And yes, you can tell Clint we’ve got Laura too, and she is  _fine._ So are the kids. All healthy, all getting so tall! It’s been a rough eleven months (almost a year?? How?) but they weren’t harmed. Actually from what we can see, they were all kept in pretty good conditions. Rhodes even got physio, and the kids got lessons.  
  
Scratch what I said about working your magic on Tony. I panicked. Still, it’s best if you don’t let him see her straight away; allow me or Steve to talk to him first, okay? I’ll send Clint a message too and update him on Laura and the kids but I’M MAKING YOU RESPONSIBLE FOR TONY.  ~~Lock him in his room if you have to~~ Don’t do that. I don’t know but figure something out.  
  
Everyone’s in pretty high spirits over here. It’s a bit like a party, it’s a shame you, Clint and Tony couldn’t be here. The kids keep trying to see how the jet is steered, and Bruce is a darling with Nathaniel. He’s so big now! And fat. Thank God the kids all look healthy and just  _not traumatized ~~,~~_ ~~I don’t know how I’d live with myself if~~  
  
I had to tell Rhodes and Potts about Tony. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but it was fucked up. Harder than telling them he was dead because I had to explain why we didn’t reach out and save him earlier.  ~~Potts won’t stop crying but I think that might be the~~ I can’t stop thinking about how this would have all been different if we’d just  _reached out_ when we’d had the chance? I don’t know. Maybe it’s not worth thinking about.  
  
Rhodes has lost weight. I think he’s a lot angrier than he’s letting on, but he’s being stoic about it. Hill is asking to be dropped off in South America so she can be with Fury – I’m trying to explain to her why that is absolutely not possible, but I think she’s a bit shell-shocked.  
  
~~(On another note – and this is completely unlikely and super bizarre but do you think they had something going on? Maria Hill and Fury, I mean. That’s crazy, right? The guy is basically twice her age and – no, no I’m crazy, ignore me)~~  
  
Anyway you should pass on the good news. We’ll be home in eight hours, tops. Remember: do not let Tony see Potts. I’m trusting you on this!  
  
Catch you later,

Natasha R.


	11. Tony

 

He wakes to Wanda, sitting by his bed. His eyes crack open, she doesn’t notice. She’s reading a magazine – an American one, Tony’s seen it before, but it’s for young women and he’s never really paid attention. He’s sure he’s been splashed across the cover more than once, though. “Wanda?” he croaks.  
  
She looks up, smiles. “Morning,” she says. “Sleep well?”  
  
“I – “ Tony’s vision is bleary. “I guess,” he says. “What was the occasion?”  
  
“You passed out.”  
  
“I – “ Tony blinks, and brings his hand up to his head. “I did, didn’t I?”  
  
“Yeah. Uh – look,” Wanda exhales, rests the magazine on her knees. “Steve said not to say the ‘C’ word, but you’ve got a tumor. In your head. Good news is it’s benign, and operable, and you’ve just about won the lottery as far as life-threatening illnesses go.” Wanda bites her lip. “Sorry,” she says “that was insensitive.”  
  
“No no, that’s – fine.” Tony blinks, tries to sit up. “What day is it? How long – God, have they gone?”  
  
Wanda nods. “Steve left fruit.”  
  
Tony stares at the basket by his bed. “All of them?” He asks.  
  
“Except me and Clint. And T’challa, obviously. He’s here, by the way, wants to speak to you and see everyone when they come in. We’re going to have a party,” Wanda smiles “it’ll be good.”  
  
“Any word?” Tony says “Are they safe? Are they – what about Pepper and Rhodey, has anyone said anything?” He’s holding his breath without even really being aware of it, biting his tongue. Wanda puts down her magazine.  
  
“Nat wrote. She said they have everyone. She said Pepper and Rhodey are fine, although – they’re fine. Rhodes even got physio, apparently. And Clint’s kids? All good. They’ll be back soon. Really soon. Two hours or so.”  
  
Tony’s heart is in his throat; he had a lot of time to think, in the Raft, in the dark. A lot of time. He’s going to make things right, he decides, make things right with Pepper, apologize to Rhodey. And now he has the chance. Today, soon. Tony settles back against his pillows; for the first time in a long time, everything seems –  
  
Except his brain tumor. That’s mildly worrying. Christ, what a fucking mess, after all that, is this what’s going to get him? It may be benign, but these things don’t just come from nowhere. And imagine dying from – slowly forgetting who he was –  
  
“Can I sit?”  
  
Tony is shaken from his doze. Was that Wanda? He blinks, looks up, and – it’s Clint.  
  
He stares. “Where’s Wanda?”  
  
“I relieved her.”  
  
“What is this, Stark sitting?”  
  
“Something like that. Steve told us to make sure you don’t – wander off,” Clint mutters vaguely. He slumps into the chair by Tony’s bed, but he isn’t carrying that tired air about him he’s had the past month. His eyes are bright.  
  
“So I’m here to apologize,” he says confidently. “I am, I am doing that a lot, at the moment.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“I was an ass to you. I was an ass to everyone, but – mostly you. And that was – bad. I need you to know that what happened to you? I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, not Loki, or Ross, or… anyone. And I saw, what happened to you. No no, it’s okay. I know you don’t want to talk about it but please – just listen.” Clint rubs his eyes, pinches his bridge. “Look, what I’m trying to say is it wasn’t your fault, and – everything I’ve said, and done – if we could put it in the past – “  
  
“Yeah,” Tony croaks.  
  
“Yeah, as in… yes, you agree? Or is that a passive aggressive sort of – “  
  
“Yes, as in I agree, I mean. And I would appreciate if you never mentioned what you saw or… whatever, never mention that to my face again. I don’t want to think about it.”  
  
Clint nods. “Done. If I can do anything else – “  
  
“No,” Tony says distractedly “no, no we’re equal. I hope you enjoy having your family back.”  
  
Clint leans back in his chair, tilts his head. “I’m sorry about – whatever you’ve got stuck in your brain.”  
  
“No sweat.”  
  
“For what it’s worth you seem better. Talking, I mean, and – you couldn’t even look me in the eye when you first came back.”  
  
God Clint is just desperate to drive that home, isn’t he? “I feel better,” Tony says “I… things are clearer.”  
  
“You looking forward to seeing Rhodey again?” Clint raises his eyebrows, smirks slightly. “Pepper?”  
  
“We broke up.”  
  
“But hey, you miss her, right? God knows I – “ Clint heaves a sigh. “God I miss Laura. When was the last time you got some?”  
  
Tony actually finds himself snorting. “I don’t want to think about it.”  
  
“I’m scared Nathan won’t recognize me, you know? He’s almost three. I haven’t been there for so long I mean – does that fuck you up as a baby? Jesus, Nat said they were all fine but you just don’t know, do you? I figured – hey, are you okay?”  
  
Tony can feel it, pressing against the back of his skull. Of course, it could be psychosomatic, in fact it must be, but he’s suddenly gone lightheaded and it’s hard to focus. “Uh,” he breathes “keep talking, I’m just – “  
  
“What is it? Your head? Should I – get a doctor?”  
  
“No,” Tony manages, and his fingers squeeze Clint’s wrist. “Nah, no. Just keep talking. Mmm, okay,” he huffs, and shuts his eyes, and breathes. “I thought – I thought it was just migraines you know? From the electrics. Thought maybe it was like some kind of concussion? But no. It’s c-cancer,” and Tony starts to laugh. “God after all that I – “  
  
“It’s not cancer,” Clint corrects, hopefully, carefully. “It’s a tumor. Benign. And operable! And Tony you’re in a country with the best doctors in the world. I mean, literally, the best doctors in the world. You will be fine. Your friends will be here soon and – “  
  
Clint stops, abruptly. Tony opens his eyes. T’challa is in the door, tie loose and suit buttons undone, sleeves rolled up to his arms. “Mr Barton,” he says, voice rich and heavy. “Mr Stark.”  
  
“Your highness,” Clint says, measuredly. “I will be… I’ll be going, then.”  
  
T’challa nods. “Your family will be here soon,” he says “you should go prepare.”  
  
Tony watches him carefully, as T’challa takes his place in the chair which now seems to small. He smiles in a way Tony imagines he thinks is comforting. He examines the fruit on Tony’s bedside. “When I was a child, I would collect fresh fruit from the trees in our garden.”  
  
Tony stares. “… Okay.”  
  
T’challa smiles. “Sorry,” he says “you don’t care. That’s understandable. Are you feeling better?”  
  
“About as good as can be expected.”  
  
T’challa nods. “Do you like the garage?”  
  
“It’s… it’s definitely something.”  
  
“It used to be used by some of the technicians we had here,” T’challa explained. “After I began hosting the Avengers, we moved them and their families elsewhere. But still, the facilities here are spectacular, aren’t they?”  
  
“Very… good.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” T’challa says “you must be tired. Shall I come back later?”  
  
“No, no – no. I’m just,” Tony huffs a laugh, or at least tries to. “You know it’s been a difficult few weeks. Uh, months. Well, few years if you really think about it and – and I do not, want to think about it. So – “  
  
“I’ve come to apologise,” T’challa interjects quickly. “To you. For how I… handled your case.”  
  
“Oh. I. Thank you. That’s not necessary.”  
  
T’challa looks away. “It is,” he says simply. “Of course it is. Would you allow me to explain myself?”  
  
“Of course,” Tony says “but look, you don’t have to – “  
  
“We thought you had intel. I mean spies. I was warned by advisors that you were not a stupid man, and there was no way you would leave us now that we had your friends. We found Stark registered software buried in our inter-system – I realize now that it was probably just a relic from the dealing we had with SI back in the 70s, but still. In the time it took for the evidence to be analyzed and your trial…”  
  
“I understand.”  
  
“No,” T’challa continues. “I have been busy, you see. This is new, leadership is new. I don’t have time for the things I used to, for my own personal relationships, for making sure… sometimes, things regrettably slip under my attention. It has only been a year and – and maybe it was easier, in that case, for me to believe that you were guilty, and keep you in the Raft. After, when I justified your release under – “ T’challa shakes his head, pinches the bridge of his nose. “There was no reason to keep you in the cell. Again, it was… oversight. Stupidity. Maybe, maybe some maliciousness on my part, although I would hate to admit it.” He smiles sadly. “Either way, I would hope… we can put it behind us.”  
  
“You really – you all need to stop this,” Tony croaks “apologizing and – stop. I don’t want it, I don’t need it.”  
  
T’challa nods. “We’ll start again,” he says “that’s what we’ll do.” Tony notes that there are large bags under his eyes, that he looks disheveled, worn in a way Tony didn’t think a king ever could. He figures that’s what happens when you have the USA breathing down your neck.  
  
He feels mildly disgusted.  
  
“I have one more thing to ask of you,” T’challa says, and it seems to pain him. “Your ordeal, at the hands of Ross. You understand that it’s in violation of…  _thousands_ of laws, UN and otherwise, correct?”  
  
“Obviously.”  
  
“And while we recognize that Ross may have utilized some loopholes, we do not believe the UN would condone such behavior.”  
  
“Hopefully not.”  
  
“So – your government has not yet released a statement saying you’ve escaped. We do not think they will without provocation first. They’ll keep the public in the dark as long as they can, what with Ellis’s impeachment – “  
  
“That’s happening?” Tony blurts, and he’s mildly shocked. “On what grounds?”  
  
“Major ethical violations in the form of your friend’s imprisonment. We suppose that Ross must be holding Ellis to ransom – chances are, Tony, he’s about as innocent as you. But whatever Ross has on him means he’s willing to take the fall.”  
  
“He’s the  _president._ I – I voted for him!”  
  
“Well that’s democracy,” T’challa sighs. “It’s rarely anything but a façade.”  
  
“That is patently untrue.”  
  
T’challa waves a hand. “I’m sure you could debate with me for hours, Tony, your Captain already has. It’s not the point. The Vice-President – “  
  
“Impeached?” Tony interrupts, mulling it over. “So you’re saying – the people have found out that Pepper and Rhodey and – everyone, that they’ve been held illegally? And what did they think before, that they’d just – “  
  
“Tony,” T’challa corrects gently. “Your people go missing all the time, you, you go missing all the time. You’ve been MIA at least five times in the last eight years. Rhodes, Potts, people know it goes with the territory. But now that it’s been released – “  
  
“They think  _Ellis_ did that. Really? They think Ellis kept Pepper and Rhodey locked up for – why? Why would he do that, what’s even the motivation – “  
  
“You shouldn’t strain yourself,” T’challa warns. “You mustn’t get too excited, not in your condition.”  
  
“Just tell me,” Tony says “Ellis’s impeachment, what’s it got to do with me?”  
  
T’challa pauses. “Well,” he says “you know the truth.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“If you could release a statement – “  
  
“Oh,” Tony mumbles, weakly. “You want me to – to speak.”  
  
“Or give your… permission. For me to speak on your behalf, yes.”  
  
“And say what?”  
  
“Tell the people what you suffered at Ross’ hands. If you could give an account to some of my lawyers, maybe. You’ll have to see a therapist, to go over the injustices, to recount everything fully. You understand we need this, for a testimony. I realize it will be difficult, and you have resisted so far and we’ve allowed it, because maybe it was too soon, too harsh. But now it’s necessary. If Ellis is removed from his post, and if Ross somehow takes proxy – “  
  
“That wouldn’t happen.”  
  
“Tony your government is corrupt. For the past 70 years your top senators have been consorting with Nazis, your Vice-President with biological terrorists, and your peace-keeping organization turned out to be a front for HYDRA. Not to mention, now, that your Secretary of State is a murderous monster who will commit any and all crimes to keep those he views as undesirable out of his grasp for power. Ross doesn’t need to be president; he needs to have corrupt friends in high places and, Tony, the US government is filled with them.”  
  
“I give you permission, then. I give you my permission to – to say what you want. And I’ll see your lawyers, and your psychiatrists, it’s the least I can do. But I don’t want – “ Tony doesn’t know if he’s allowed to ask, to demand, if his opinions really matter at all. “I don’t want medication. And I don’t want a fuss, or – anything. I don’t want to play a victim, just – give them the facts,” he winces.  
  
“The facts?” T’challa says gently. “How am I supposed to skew the facts in any way that doesn’t make you look like a victim?”  
  
“Just – don’t be over-dramatic. I don’t want that, I don’t want to be remembered as – as the guy who was tortured by the US government, I don’t want – please. Just that, that’s all.”  
  
T’challa nods. “I’ll do my best, then.”  
  
The pain in the back of Tony’s head spike. He groans, and tries to keep it down, but vertigo hits him hard. “Sorry,” he bites out “could you just – the IV, could you – “  
  
“Another dose?”  
  
Tony nods, and it’s  _so fucking painful._  
  
T’challa obliges; the pain begins to fade, although his head still feels freakishly heavy. “Thank you,” he mumbles, resting back down on the pillows. “That’s good. That’s – feels better.”  
  
Tony is drifting away when the alarm bell that signals that the compound is being opened sounds out, loud and blearing. He knows what it means. Tries to keep himself awake for just a bit longer, if he could just – see Pepper –  
  
Sleeps pulls him too hard, too fast.  
  
  
He dreams of –  
  
Lights, being rolled down a corridor. Lying on a gurney. They fix his head with metal and –  
  
The dream is unsettling enough that Tony forces himself awake with the self-awareness that only comes with drug induced sleep. He blinks, coughs; the back of his throat is dry with air-conditioned oxygen, and the room is dark, silent, lit only by a bedside lamp.  
  
Someone has replaced the fruit by his bed with flowers, a candy bar, and a bottle of coke with a message that reads ‘we made it!’. It’s written in Steve’s hand. It’s cute.  
  
He rips open the bar and takes a bite and it reminds him that he hasn’t had chocolate in over a year. God, he savors the taste. Where  _is_ the chocolate in Wakanda? Now that’s an interesting sociological question, maybe they don’t eat it. The slow ticking clock on the wall tells Tony it’s just gone midnight. Will people be awake? If Pepper and Rhodey are here right now, Tony wants to see them. He needs to see them. He should just – see them.  
  
So he swings his feet over the bed, rips out his IVs (ouch – don’t do that at home, he thinks.) He’s a little light on his feet, but he still manages to pad to the door, look out at the sterile hallway. He makes his way to the elevator, only stumbling slightly, and heads to the main floor. Walks to the lounge.  
  
Hears voices. Laughter. And then – that’s Rhodey, that’s definitely him. His voice sounds… a little deeper? Maybe it’s just in his head. Tony’s stomach is in his mouth, his throat constricting, God it’s been a year – it’s been a year and –  
  
“Jim?” He croaks. The room slowly, sweepingly, falls silent.  
  
And Rhodey turns. He’s – well, he’s a little thinner around the face. He’s got a thin beard, greying. He doesn’t look unhealthy, his eyes are still bright, and he’s – wheeling, towards Tony, in an electric chair. “Jesus,” he says “look at you Tones, haven’t you been eating?”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Tony swallows, hard. “It’s, you know, been a rough few months and – oof.” Rhodey grabs his wrists and tugs him down into a hug.  
  
“I can’t come up so you’re gonna have to go down,” he grunts, and Tony smiles, then laughs, then actually hugs him back. And Rhodey feels strong, not like he’s been trapped in a small room for a year, and when Tony pulls back it’s not like –  
  
“Shit,” someone mutters. “Oh shit, I told you to keep him away.”  
  
“He was sleeping!” Another person hisses “How was I supposed to know?”  
  
Tony stares. Pepper – she looks well. Her hair is short, cropped just below her ears. She’s wearing one of the white outfits the staff wear in the heat. She’s standing in the doorway holding a glass of ice water, filled to the brim, and when she sees Tony, her eyes fill with tears. She presses the back of her hand to her mouth, ducks her head.  
  
Tony blinks. “They hurt you?” He manages. “Is this – did someone touch you?”  
  
Pepper, wordless, shakes her head.  
  
“Then – “ Tony huffs. “I mean, that’s not mine.”  
  
Again, Pepper is quiet. Rhodey’s presence at his side becomes obnoxious, obscene, he feels Rhodes’ burning silence like a brand on his chest, and –  
  
The room is silent. “His?” He asks, quietly, only briefly looking at Rhodes. “Both of you, together?”  
  
Again, absolute quiet. Pepper nods. Curls her hand over the curve of her belly where it rests, probably, what, eight months? Even more, if possible, she looks full-term. So.  
  
So it wasn’t that much an imprisonment, then.  
  
Shit, he can feel it. The longer he stands there, the burning that’s coming up the back of his neck, curling his fists. Everyone stands in that room, watching him, and Tony feels – humiliation, first of all. Because his – Christ could you make this up, his  _best friend_ has impregnated his  _girlfriend –_  
  
“Tony,” Steve says, and he’s the one who stands, rushes over, tries to calm him, hands on shoulders. “C’mon,” he says “it’s late. Why don’t we – “  
  
“ _Together?”_ Tony spits “You couldn’t have fucking – oh my God!”  
  
“No, Tony, come on. We’re not doing this now, we can’t. Please, you’re tired, everyone’s tired, we need to – “  
  
“We – after you  _told me_ you  _didn’t want –_ was this going on before?! How long! Hey, Jim! Hey why don’t you look me in the fucking eye, Jim! Why don’t you look me in the – “ He goes, then, to actually, physically, punch him, and Steve has to hold him back.  
  
“No,” he huffs “enough. We’re leaving, Tony, come on, we’re leaving.”  
  
And Steve is hauling him away, and Tony is still screaming, insults and curses and – really nasty things, objectively, surprised by how strong he really is, while Rhodey lowers his head and doesn’t say anything and Pepper continues to look like she’s on the verge of tears.  
  
“Your nose is bleeding,” Steve says as he hustles him into one of the other lounges “fuck, look at you. Sit down, there, go on.” He takes tissues from the gold laden tissue box which – even for Tony seems a bit excessive. He presses them under Tony’s nose and Tony snatches them away, spits at him. Steve retreats accordingly.  
  
It’s like a fog is lifting from his brain. They were fucking behind his back for years, weren’t they? Weren’t they? That – God, Tony is angry. It’s buzzing inside him, like wasps under his skin, and he needs –  
  
“You need to breathe,” Steve says, and he sits down on the coffee table. “Because shouting isn’t going to change anything.”  
  
“She cheated. They both – cheated.”  
  
“No, she didn’t. You weren’t together. You’re not together. You haven’t been together for over a year and a half.”  
  
“Not the point. The principle. Betrayal of trust.”  
  
“That’s true,” Steve says, exhaling. “Yeah, I know. It is a betrayal of trust, I won’t pretend it’s not.”  
  
“She told she didn’t want kids,” Tony grumbles, dabbing under his nose. “She told me she – wasn’t the type.”  
  
“Well, let’s think about this. Maybe by the time she discovered she was pregnant, it was too late.”  
  
“The best contraception is no sex at all, didn’t you know?”  
  
“Things happen when you’re locked away with someone like that. When you’re locked away for a long time.”  
  
“You support them,” Tony says bitterly.  
  
“And you don’t? Tony,” Steve shakes his head “Tony that baby is coming any day now and it’s not like you can stop it. It’s going to be born. And they’re two parents who – who are annexed from their country, from their home, raising a baby on foreign soil after a year’s incarceration for crimes they didn’t commit. And you – don’t understand that?”  
  
“Of course I understand it,” Tony mumbles. “I get it. But that doesn’t mean I’m not – furious.”  
  
Steve sighs. He rests a heavy hand on Tony’s shoulder, and his thumb finds the back of his neck. Strokes their lightly. “C’mon,” he says “you need to be in bed.”  
  
“What, so my benign tumor doesn’t explode?”  
  
“No, just – because your nose is bleeding, and now you’re stressed.” Steve smiles, or tries to. “C’mon. They’re back, Tony. They’re all back. Clint’s with his family right now, you – God you should have seen the kids. They’ve grown? I don’t know, I sort of forgot they could do that. Maria and Sharon are okay although – “ Steve meets his eyes briefly. “You know, not happy with me. If you were wondering which side Maria would have been on… definitely you.”  
  
“Whoopie.” Tony dead-pans.  
  
“And Sharon – “ Steve shrugs. “Hey, you know. It’s great for everyone to be back together.”  
  
Tony huffs. He hates Steve for being understanding, and making him see reason. He fucking hates him for it.  
  
Hates all of them, actually.  
  
“You ready?” Steve asks. He holds out his arm. “I can take you back down.”  
  
“No, I – want to go back to my room,” Tony mutters. He doesn’t like the hospital, it’s too clinical, the beds aren’t as soft. Steve looks on the fence, but relents.  
  
“Fine,” he says “but you know I can’t leave you.”  
  
“Then install a baby monitor, what do I care?”  
  
“I mean if you have a – I don’t know, a seizure in the night – “  
  
“I can’t go back to the hospital,” Tony blurts again, suddenly, because all he can think about is being wheeled down a corridor on a gurney and bright lights in his face, Kevin by his side and – needles, and water, electricity and pain. It buries itself under his skin. He can’t face it, not even when this hospital is bright and warm and Steve leaves him sugary treats.  
  
“ – kay,” Steve is saying “it’s okay. Yeah, of course we don’t have to. I’ll just – wait with you, a bit. If that’s okay,” he adds, quickly.  
  
Tony rubs his brow. “Yeah,” he croaks “yeah.” They stand, and Steve supports him with an arm around his shoulders. It’s awkward, at least, it is for Tony; Steve is very close, and – and he doesn’t seem to notice Tony’s discomfort. So Tony talks to cover it up.  
  
“T’challa visited today. Or maybe – yesterday? Timing’s a bit messed up in my head.” They pass near the lounge and Tony can hear Rhodey and Pepper talking. He feels bad, then, for his outburst, and has to push it away.  
  
“Oh yeah? About what?”  
  
“To – apologise. And also to ask if I was happy to – to have my – obviously, what happens on the Raft is illegal, so he wanted – “  
  
“I get it,” Steve says quickly. “And you’re okay with that?”  
  
Tony shrugs. “If it helps, I guess.”  
  
Steve jerks his chin, pushes open the door to Tony’s room. “How’s your head?”  
  
“Hurting,” Tony admits. “I’ve had enough painkillers though. I’ll just – shut my eyes.”  
  
“That help?”  
  
“Maybe.” Tony finds himself smiling “I think it’s, like, 60-50 self-delusion.”  
  
“Whatever makes you feel better, Tones.”  
  
Tony blinks. He should say something, he thinks, but – did Steve realize he’d just called him Tones? “Uh,” he says “sure. I – you know, maybe some water would help.”  
  
“Oh yeah, yes,” Steve says, and then he’s jumping into action. Tony can’t for the life of him figure out why he’s being so helpful. Guilt? Maybe. Tony settles on the bed, rubs at his brow. His head really is aching, now, long and low.  
  
“Here,” Steve says, and he gently pushes the glass into Tony’s hand. “Drink this, and sleep. I’ll leave some painkillers by the bed.”  
  
“Thanks,” Tony mumbles. He kicks off his shoes, crawls over the bed and under the covers. “You just gonna – sit there?”  
  
“I have work to do. You sleep. I’ll get someone else to look after you in a few hours and catch some sleep myself.”  
  
“You shouldn’t – have to. I can go back to med,” he manages, against the clawing soft mattress and warm blanket. He doesn’t mean it, really, and Steve can tell.  
  
“No,” he says “you sleep.”  
Tony buries his head in the pillow. The room goes silent, apart from Steve humming lightly under his breath.  
  
“Steve?” Tony mumbles.  
  
“Yeah Tony?”  
  
“You don’t have to stay.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
Another beat. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
“For everything.”  
  
A long pause. “No,” Steve says softly. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Good.” Tony manages shortly, silently satisfied.

And sleep he does.


	12. Tony 2

He wakes too early, but there are no nightmares. In fact, despite the tumor in his head, and the chronic case of post-traumatic stress, Tony wakes feeling… marginally better than he has in a while, all things considered.  
  
“You’re awake,” Rhodey says quickly “okay you’re going to have to just let me speak for the next ten minutes and explain why – “  
  
“Jesus,” Tony manages, and he rolls onto his side, curls the blanket over his head. Not now, he thinks, just – not now. Let him live his damn life in peace.  
  
“Don’t do that. Don’t ignore me now, Tones. C’mon I can’t reach you, just listen. Please. I know you’ve had a rough time, Tony, I know it. And – I don’t want to make it sound like I’m, I don’t know, making myself feel better, but we had a bad time too. Tony. Tony please just look at me.”  
  
Tony huffs, peeks his head out from under his arm. “I’m not angry,” he mumbles.  
  
Rhodey blinks. “What?”  
  
“I said,” he sighs, sitting up. “That I’m not angry. Betrayed, yes, and – I don’t know, sad, mostly. But I’m not angry with you. I get it. You were locked up a long time. Pepper wasn’t cheating on me, she wouldn’t. And – “ Tony chances a look at Rhodey’s eyes. “I’m sorry, that I snapped. You know I’m having some trouble with that.”  
  
Rhodey looks at him for a long time. Then he covers his face with his hands. Tony hopes he isn’t going to cry because – Tony couldn’t handle that right now. Tony has seen him cry… maybe twice before, at a push. When his dad died, and after Afghanistan, when Tony was in the hospital. “Ross visited, you know?” Rhodey manages. “He visited us. He told us – that they’d cut you open. Or that they’d drilled your brain. Or that they were hurting you every day. And after – after he found out Pepper was – that she had – “  
  
“Rhodey…” Tony mutters warningly.  
  
“They wouldn’t abort it. Abort – her, or him. Wouldn’t let us. And after that we were kept separate, all of us were, on different sides of the compound. I haven’t seen Pepper in months, at least, not before last night. I didn’t know what they were doing to her, or you. I can’t even fucking  _walk,_ Tony, let alone – “  
  
“It’s okay,” Tony says quietly. “Jim, it’s – “  
  
“It’s not,” Rhodey wheezes “it’s not  _okay._ How can it be okay? You’re – Jesus, you’re ill, and Pepper – I’m about to have a kid. And Pepper won’t – she isn’t – you need to talk to her. She needs help. She needs doctors, and friends, and – “  
  
“She’ll get all the medical help she needs,” Tony assures “trust me on that, Wakanda doesn’t skimp.”  
  
“I don’t mean – I know that. But she’s not well. Hasn’t been, not since – after they told us you were – you know, when they showed us pictures. She must have already been pregnant then, but she wasn’t – you know, she’d stopped menstruating way before. The stress, and the diet and – I’m sorry, why am I telling you this?” Rhodey huffs, looks back up. He sniffs, rubs at his head. “You’ve had it worse than all of us, Tones.”  
  
“I’m okay.”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, sure.”  
  
“I’ll talk to her, Rhodey. I was never – not going to. I was just angry, last night. I’d thought I was getting you back, I thought – I don’t know. Maybe that Pepper would – it doesn’t matter. I’m not angry, with either of you.”  
  
“Is that your blessing?” Rhodey asks with a small smile. “I’m not angry?”  
  
“I guess. I wouldn’t stop you from – look, even if the world was normal, I wouldn’t stop you two from being together. I’m not like that, I’m not bitter. We’re all adults, you’re both – consenting. And it was a difficult time, and now you’re having a baby and -- I understand. It’s okay. I – forgive you.” Tony winces.  
  
“You’ll be godfather,” Rhodey says, a statement.  
  
“Oh boy.”  
  
And then Rhodey laughs. “Yeah you will. Uncle Tony. And when this is over – “  
  
“Let’s not – talk about that. I don’t want to think ahead.”  
  
Rhodey claps him on the knee. “Sure,” he says, wheeling back. “You’ll come down for breakfast?”  
  
“That – yeah. Yes, of course.”  
  
  
Tony is pushed by a blur. He stumbles back, grips the doorway, and the small person goes running off, back round the table.  
  
“Dev, be careful!” Someone says, and that’s – that’s Laura Barton, Tony thinks. She’s combing through a girl’s hair. Clint sits next to her, with a baby on his lap. Not a baby a – big baby. A small child. A child that is – half baby, half child. Toddler, Tony’s minds supplies, it’s a toddler, and it has banana smeared around it’s mouth.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Laura says with a small smile. “They’ve been cooped up a long time. It just nice for him to be able to kick a ball.”  
  
“Yeah, no,” Tony mumbles “I can imagine.” He takes a seat at the table and helps himself to toast. “You get in alright?”  
  
“Smooth sailing. Happiest day of my life,” she grins, and then laughs. “It’s nice to be out. It’s – I mean, I don’t need to tell you.”  
  
“That you don’t,” Tony agrees, spreading jam over the bread. The balcony doors are open, the gauze curtains flapping in the light breeze. “Ross has… hey, I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.”  
  
“You don’t have to be,” is all Laura replies. She sticks her tongue out between her lips and tugs at her daughter’s hair. “There,” she says “off you go. If Dev is mean again come back and tell me.”  
  
Too many kids, Tony thinks. There are going to be too many kids. Tony feels like he should know their names, but he also feels like it’s too late to ask. It’s fucking rough, he thinks, being imprisoned when you’re a child. The least Ross could have done is let them stay with grandparents of something.  
  
“It wasn’t too bad, you know,” Laura sighs. “We weren’t hurt. The kids got some lessons, we had freedom, to an extent. At least we did, until – you know, uh.” Laura thinks she might have said to much. “Pepper and, and James. They – “  
  
“I know,” Tony glosses over.  
  
“Yeah. I mean up until that point, it was okay. After that we were kept separate, but I always had the kids.”  
  
“It’s good,” Clint says, swinging round and bouncing the kid on his lap. “It’s good they had you,” and he presses a kiss to her head.  
  
“Well, no thanks to you,” she says shortly, and whacks his shoulder. “Getting involved in fights you had no reason to be getting involved in.”  
  
Clint winces. “Laura…”  
  
“Please don’t fight,” someone says shortly, and Tony turns. Maria Hill’s hair is longer than he remembers. Other than that, she is perfectly unchanged and unfazed, as usual. “Hi Tony. Good to see you.” She takes the seat next to him, picks apart bread glaring balefully ahead.  
  
“Uh – good to see you too?”  
  
“Could you control the children?” She snaps “I have a headache.”  
  
“Maria,” Laura says measuredly without looking up.  
  
“Sorry,” she grumbles. “How are you, Tony?”  
  
“Okay. Been better.”  
  
“I heard about the cancer. I’m sorry. That’s – really awful.”  
  
“It’s not cancer, why do people keep – it’s just a tumor.”  
  
“There’s no such thing as just a tumor,” Maria says darkly “my mother had just a tumor, and she didn’t last two year after I was bo – “  
  
Laura kicks her, under the table, and Clint glares. Maria seems to realize she’s being unsociable. “Sorry,” she says again. “I’ve forgotten how to play nice.”  
  
Tony feels like he should say something, but he’s used up his small-talk on Laura. “Uh,” he manages “you know, the weather – “  
  
“Ignore her,” someone else says, and would you look at that, there are fucking a million of them now. Tony squints, watches as Sharon takes a seat, and says:  
  
“Agent 13.”  
  
“Mr Stark,” she replies shortly. “Nice to see you’re in good health.”  
  
“I’ve been getting that a lot.”  
  
“Yes, well,” Sharon raises her eyebrows pointedly “they showed us photos of you. It wasn’t pretty.”  
  
Tony shuts his mouth and looks away. Thanks, Sharon.  
  
“Ms Carter and Hill have been very grumpy,” Laura says in a way that Tony suspects she uses with children. “In fact, they’ve been grumpy all year.”  
  
“They put the women together,” Clint explains “after Rhodes – you know. They’ve all been sharing the same space for a long time. Alliances have formed.”  
  
Tony almost snorts, but the serious look in Clint’s face stops him. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Well there’s plenty of room here.”  
  
“Doesn’t matter,” Hill says. “We’re leaving, as soon as we can.”  
  
“To go where?!”  
  
“Find Nick,” she says shortly.  
  
“And what’ll you do when you find him?” Tony asks “Just – sit?”  
  
“No. Put together an actual plan, re-group. Nick has contacts in Europe, we’ll be safe there. Or maybe we’ll be a voice on the inside. Either way, we’ll keep in touch.”  
  
They’re free people, Tony can’t stop them. Tony wonders if he’d be allowed to leave, if T’challa would let him get up and go if he really wanted to. Then again, Tony doesn’t think he would now, not when Rhodey’s here and Pepper’s here and they have a baby on the way. He doesn’t think he wants to.  
  
“Good morning,” Natasha says, strangely civil. She takes the seat opposite Tony, next to Laura. “Everyone sleep well?”  
  
Laura glares at Maria. Sharon eats her toast, stony faced. Tony stares pointedly ahead, hands on his knees. The baby gurgles.  
  
“Nathan!” Natasha coos, (Nathan, his name is Nathan Tony remembers) taking him from his father’s arms. “Isn’t he such a big boy now? And he looks just like his mommy, which is fortunate.”  
  
“That,” Clint says, sitting himself fully at the table “is rude.”  
  
“Nathan’s going to have a buddy soon,” Natasha says, letting him grab her hand and shake it. She looks at Tony, and Tony looks back.  
  
“Yeah,” he says “won’t that be fun?”  
  
Natasha takes this at face value. Tony isn’t in the mood to have her wind him up. Nathan doesn’t say anything, just stares ahead. He smiles though, and waves at Tony. Tony waves back.  
  
“He’s not speaking,” Clint says in a low voice “it’s not saying anything. He hasn’t said anything since he got back.”  
  
“Well it’s a big change for him,” Natasha says.  
  
Laura’s lips form a line. “He’s not a big talker,” she says bluntly.  
  
“Since when?”  
  
“Since, Clint. Just since,” Laura snaps. “Give him here,” she says, and little Nathan gets pulled onto his mother’s lap. “You watch the kids, I’m giving him a bath.”  
  
“Laura.”  
  
“He needs a bath.”  
  
“Laura!”  
  
She leaves. Maria’s lips are pursed. Natasha’s eyebrows are raised. Bizarrely, Clint looks on the verge of tears.  
  
“Lucy and Dev are on the balcony,” Natasha says quietly. “You should go play ball with them.”  
  
Clint stands abruptly. Mutters under his breath, and then turns, and says “Hey, kids? You wanna throw your dad the ball?”  
  
“Poor guy,” Tony mumbles.  
  
“You really think that?” Natasha asks sharply.  
  
“Yes, actually. That family is… seriously going to need some help.”  
  
“I’m surprised you would say that,” Sharon says, poking eggs with a fork. “After what happened, I mean.”  
  
On the balcony, there are screams as Clint lifts his daughter in the air and pretends to drop her. “We’ve all done bad things,” Tony manages.  
  
Pepper enters, then. She’s wearing a baggy shirt, cut in the Wakandan style he’s seen some of the female doctors wearing. Loose in the heat and white to reflect off the sun. She looks a bit like she did that time they went to Tony’s island in the Bahamas. That was a nice trip.  
  
“Good morning,” she says easily. Her eyes are red-rimmed. Tony wonders if she wants him to leave; she doesn’t seem to. Instead, Pepper takes a seat at the table helps herself to a bowl of fruit and yoghurt.  
  
“Sleep well?” Natasha ventures.  
  
Pepper smiles vacantly. “Yes, very well. Thank you, Natasha.”  
  
Natasha kicks Tony under the table, shoots him a look. And so Tony clears his throat. “How are you feeling?”  
  
Pepper runs her tongue over her lips, swallows a spoon of yogurt. “Much better,” she says “thank you for asking, Tony.”  
  
Natasha stands first, followed by Sharon. Maria, taking the hint, follows suit, and the three of the them exit. But Pepper just keeps eating her breakfast, not saying a word, occasionally sniffing.  
  
“We should talk,” Tony says, weakly. “I don’t know if… I’m sorry, for how I reacted last night. It was out of line.”  
  
“Oh, don’t worry,” Pepper whispers, eyes fixed ahead, tremulous. “I would have done the same.” She swallows hard.  
  
“You don’t – you don’t look good.”  
  
“I’ve been feeling poorly,” Pepper says, running a hand under nose. She laughs lightly. “Which is nothing compared to you, I realize, but the baby is pretty taxing. I’m not young. I’m not…” she trails off.  
  
The sun continues to beat down on the tiles. The gauze curtains fly. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’m fine.”  
  
“They tortured you,” she says quietly.  
  
“They did. But I’m okay now.”  
  
“You’ve got a tumor.”  
  
“I – yes. But that’s fixable, or so I’m told. You don’t – “ Tony takes Pepper’s hand. “You don’t need to worry, sweetheart.”  
  
“You must think Rhodey and I, that we always…”  
  
“No. I don’t think that. You and me, we were together a long time.”  
  
“I know, I know. I don’t know how it happened. I was scared, I think, lonely. And Rhodey was the same. And I don’t know – next thing I knew – “  
  
“I understand.”  
  
“You don’t,” Pepper bites out. “You don’t. I needed to be close to him. And he’s been so good to me.”  
  
“Are you – are you together now?”  
  
“Yes,” Pepper says “for the baby.”  
  
“Pep? What are you saying? That you don’t want – “  
  
“I’m very confused, Tony. You will have to give me a moment.” Pepper laughs again, vacant and high. “Baby names,” she says “what do you think? For a girl or a boy?”  
  
“Don’t you know?”  
  
“I’ve been calling him Phillip in my head.” And Pepper looks at him with what might be her first genuine smile. “Phillip – Rhodes? Rhodes-Potts? Potts-Rhodes? I haven’t thought about it. I’ve never really liked Potts, if I’m honest.”  
  
“Phillip Potts?” Tony says, and he almost – almost – laughs. “Really?”  
  
“Maybe not. Maybe – if it’s a boy, he can be a Rhodes. I think that would make Jim happy.”  
  
“Phillip Rhodes, then. And if it’s a girl?”  
  
Pepper pauses. “Philomena.”  
  
“Don’t do that to the child, Christ.”  
  
Pepper smiles wanely and rests her hand on her belly. Winces. “Not long now,” she says.  
  
“Are you… excited?”  
  
“Tony I keep thinking about the fact that while you were incarcerated, facing awful things, I fucked your best friend. And I knew at the time what I was doing was bad. I knew it in my bones. I knew we had only just broken up, and even if we hadn’t, it would never not be a huge betrayal of trust, but I did it anyway. I keep thinking about the fact I begged Ross – don’t tell Jim this, Tony – that I got down on my knees and physically begged Ross for an abortion, and he said no. Because Ross is all for the sanctity of life when it’s still inside my stomach, and because that man is a sadist of the highest order.”  
  
“Please don’t – “  
  
“Don’t what, tell you? It always made you so uncomfortable,” Pepper says, almost irritable. “When I talked about things that disturbed me, or the bad things in my life. You never wanted to hear it.”  
  
“That’s not true,” Tony says weakly.  
  
“It’s like you never wanted to accept there was something wrong with me. Why was that? After Killian, you never – “  
  
Tony’s head starts to spasm, throb. He has to squeeze his eyes shut tight. “Don’t,” he barks “just – shut up, please. I can’t talk about things like that, it makes my head go – go.”  
  
“Tony,” Pepper says, voice so quiet. “Oh, God.” She puts her head in her hands, and Tony should – should comfort her, tell her it’ll be alright. But she’s been imprisoned for a year, and Tony couldn’t stop it, and his fault, his – stupid, stupid, stupid fault, and he was stupid for thinking she’d ever want him, ever again, especially when Rhodey’s always been there and Tony left her, and and never gave her what she needed, and –  
  
She’s hugging him, but Tony doesn’t remember her ever standing. He pushes her away, quickly, almost brutally, and she winces. “Tony, I know – “  
  
“Sorry,” he blurts “sorry, I didn’t mean – you startled me.”  
  
Her hand cups his face. “You’re scared,” she whispers “why can’t you look me in the eye?”  
  
She knows why, they all know why, they can all see the dirt that clings to his skin, the sins written out on his face. It’s bizarre, feeling like a stranger to the woman he used to fuck –  _make love to –_ used to share something with, a real bond, a – a hope, for the future. The potential of a family. “I’m sorry,” he says; an inadequate reply.  
  
“Why?” She asks. “You don’t have to apologise to me, I – “ she huffs, moves away “Tony, I should be apologising to you, I – Christ, me and Jim – you understand, don’t you, what I mean when I say Jim and I were  _together,_ you’re not, it’s being processed in your head, right?” She looks concerned, all of a sudden. “They said you have problems with this, that sometimes you don’t understand things first time round. Am I – “  
  
“They said that?” Tony blurts looking up, almost angry. “I understand fine, I’m not – stupid.”  
  
“I mean they say you only hear things you choose to hear,” she says softly. “Tony, Jim and I are together.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“And – why are you not angry?”  
  
Tony shrugs his shoulder, look at a spot next to Pepper’s feet. “You were – alone, together, a long time and. And I never treated you right, and – and it’s okay, it’s not about what – what I want, or. It’s my fault, anyway. And I mean – “  
  
“Did I – did I not mean anything, to you?” Pepper’s brow furrows. “That – God that sounds so self-centred. I mean, I always knew that your relationships came second to your work, but Tony you’ve been hurting for so long now and – do you know what it’s like to watch the man you love fall apart in front of your eyes? Do you?”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Tony says again.  
  
“They have  _damaged_ you,” Pepper spits with sudden vitriol “God those  _bastards,_ they’ve – Tony, my – my Tony, they’ve – “ she starts to cry. Tony feels awful. He scrunches his eyes shut, fights past the blur in his brain.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’m sorry this happened to you, that – that I happened to you. I’m sorry.”  
  
Pepper wipes furiously at her cheek, takes a deep breath. “When are you going to learn that you’re not the cause of everything, Tony? God even know you’re so – so  _self-absorbed._ When are you going to learn that none of us made our choices without knowing the consequences, that Rhodey didn’t become War Machine without being a soldier first, that it was  _his choice_ and he took a hit just like you have. And like I didn’t know I could have walked at any time, could have walked after Obie, or Vankov, or Killian, but I stayed because – because you were fucking enigmatic, and wonderful. And if I could – “  
  
It’s Natasha who clears her throat.  
  
They both turn to look at her. “I’m sorry,” she says “I’ve been told to collect Clint from the balcony. Laura says she and Nathan are going to the pool.”  
  
“Oh,” Tony says forcibly. “Okay. We’re sort of having a moment here, so.”  
  
Natasha sends the kids and Clint scurrying down the corridor. “I don’t want to break anything up, but you’re both needed in the medbay. Pepper, you need that check up, and Tony the doctor’s want to go over your treatment plan.”  
  
“And I take it you’re coming?”  
  
“I might accompany you, yes.”  
  
“Tony, why are you mean to Natasha?” Pepper asks, linking his arm.  
  
“I’m not – you’re ganging up on me.”  
  
“Not at all Tony,” Natasha smiles. “Pepper’s just commenting on the fact you’re awfully mean to me.”  
  
“You know what she did, right?” Tony asks “You know she’s the reason – “  
  
“Tony, of all the things you’ve decided to let go…” Pepper sighs. “Whatever, I can’t force you. Natasha, lead the way.”  
  
“What does that mean?” Tony mutters “Of all the things – “  
  
Pepper winces; her hand tightens on Tony’s arm. “God I’m – going to throw up.”  
  
“What, really?”  
  
“No, Tony, I’m joking. Yes, really, Natasha get a bucket or – “  
  
There’s no time. Pepper ends up vomiting on the floor. She wipes the back of her hand over her mouth and groans. “Yoghurt,” she says “dairy doesn’t agree with me anymore.”  
  
“We’ll get someone to clear that up,” Natasha says smoothly. “Tony hold her arm. C’mon, we’ll get something for the nausea. You’re almost there now.”  
  
Pepper laughs. “And hopelessly unprepared.”  
  
“Are you, I don’t know, excited?”  
  
Pepper shrugs and holds on Tony’s arm tight. “Sure,” she says “who isn’t?”  
  
The doctor’s shepherd Pepper into one room and she waves, smiles slightly. Tony it lead into another, and Natasha leans against the wall. “And how are you feeling?” She asks.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“You gave me a fright, you know. When you went down. Bruce too. He’ll want to see you.”  
  
A nurse takes a swab of his elbow and Tony lets her fiddle with the IV port. What are they giving him? He doesn’t want to know. “Sure,” Tony says tiredly “whatever.”  
  
“Are you ever going to just – look at me?” Natasha says, frustrated. “Hello? Can you see me?”  
  
“Natasha – “  
  
“No! C’mon, Tony! I only did what I thought was right! I never – “  
  
“Excuse me,” a nurse says, and Natasha has to move out the way to let her pass. Tony feels slightly vindicated.  
  
“I never did what I did to hurt you. Ever. When I let Steve take that jet – it was because I knew he was never going to stop.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Okay?”  
  
“Yes, okay, fine, I forgive you Christ,” Tony rolls his eyes. “My God it’s getting desperate,” he mutters.  
  
“You – I can never tell if you’re joking or not.”  
  
“I’m not joking. There. Boom. Forgiven. What is this, by the way?” He gestures to the IV. “Am I doped?”  
  
“Just dehydrated,” the nurse says in a voice of long-suffering, which is funny, because usually doctors know Tony a bit longer before they start to hate him.  
  
“If I thought you were serious…”  
  
“I am.”  
  
Natasha sucks on her cheek. “Well if that’s the truth – “  
  
A thunder, right down to Tony’s bones. He blinks, and pills fall from the cabinets. The IV is wrenched from his arm. Natasha holds onto the door, hands going for a gun, and one of the nurses gasps in fear.  
  
“What was that?” Tony barks. “What the hell – “  
  
“Stay here,” the doctor calls. “I’m sorry, you must stay here. You’ll be safe, Imani come with me.”  
  
The doctor grabs the nurse and tugs her away. “What?” Natasha calls. “You can’t leave us, tell us what’s going – “  
  
Another shudder; this time Tony feels it deep in his bones. And earth-shaking cracking, like something crumbling, or tearing asunder, and then –  
  
The walls begin to shake. The doors begin to descend. Thick metal, probably vibranium, hopelessly impenetrable. They’re being bombed, Tony thinks. They’re under attack.  
  
All that’s left, after, is silence. Natasha’s ragged breathing, Tony’s heart thundering in his ears. Some plaster shakes itself loose from the ceiling and lodges itself in her hair.  
  
“Lucky we made up now, huh?” Tony dead-pans.  
  
“Pepper’s next door,” Natasha says “Pepper!” She shouts “Potts, can you hear us?”  
  
Silence, except for a shudder somewhere far away that shakes the IV stand. “She won’t be able to hear us, this metal is – “ Tony raps his knuckles against the wall and comes back wincing. “Ouch. Thick. Very thick, impenetrable.”  
  
“Where did the doctors go?”  
  
“I’m sure they have other things to worry about than us,” Tony snaps. “Well that’s it. We’re stuck. And we’re not getting out.”  
  
“What do you think’s happening out there?”  
  
“Ross. It must be. It must be some kind of – I don’t know, attack,” and Tony realises he’s chewing on his thumb. “You think – they’ll be okay, right? There’ll be a doctor with Pepper. And everyone will be safe somewhere, it won’t – “  
  
This time, the thundering is so loud, so harsh, it shakes the ground. Natasha falls, Tony only just manages to balance himself on her shoulder. “This is bad,” she breathes, climbing to her feet “this is really bad.”  
  
“Way to state the obvious.”  
  
“Could you take this seriously?” Natasha snaps.  
  
“I am. Pepper’s next door, there are kids here. I have zero doubt in my mind this is what happens when you steal from Ross’s house and – “ Tony pauses “and I mean, an open act of aggression like that. It can only have one outcome, in Ross’s mind.”  
  
“Sit down,” Natasha says “if another one lands we’ll fall. No one needs to get hurt. On the floor, away from the cabinets. Do I need to put your IV back in?”  
  
It’s dripping all over the floor. “I’m not sure it’s hygienic.”  
  
“How’s your head? Any pain?”  
  
“No more than usual. Yet.”  
  
“If it gets bad I’m sure there are some kind of painkillers in here. And they won’t keep us locked up to a point we starve. T’challa will have a plan. Ross is foolish if he think he can take on – “  
  
“Ross? You mean America?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I don’t want to go to war with my home, Natasha. I don’t want to be Snowden. This is never what I wanted, you know, this is… the opposite of what I wanted.” Which is true. And the anger starts to build, quickly, and Tony has to remember to force it down, keep it out.  
  
“Neither did I.”  
  
“Oh well that’s – perfect,” Tony spits “that’s fucking great, for you. Some of us stuck to our ideals, Natasha, some of us saw it through, not all of us rolled over – “  
  
“I knew it. I knew you hadn’t forgiven me.”  
  
“And what gave it away? Why do you  _need_ me to forgive you, what do I have to say? Natasha I – I have lost  _everything._ And if you hadn’t let Steve leave – “  
  
“This would be different? If I hadn’t let Steve go, and you had let Ross take him, we wouldn’t be in this position? You don’t believe that.”  
  
“I do,” Tony says, and the ground rumbles. Plaster breaks and dust lines his hair; a long crack has fixed itself in the ceiling, and Tony has visions of being buried alive. “I do believe it. I think – I think of what I went through and – and I’m  _angry,_ Natasha. Don’t you fucking understand? I dream of murder every night. I mean, Steve – I don’t have ill will, I don’t  _think_ I do, but at night I fantasise about cracking his skull with my gauntlets and leaving him to bleed in Siberia. I dream – bad things, awful things. Sometimes it’s you.”  
  
“You dream of my death?” And even Natasha sounds alarmed.  
  
“Sometimes. Other things, too.”  
  
“Other things?”  
  
Tony makes an irritated noise. “Yes, other things, Natasha. Bad things, what part of – you know what, don’t talk to me. Just – don’t talk to me. Please. Leave me alone.” Tony turns and presses himself against the wall, rests himself against the smooth sheet of metal. He can hear rumblings, deep vibrations, and all he can think is that Pepper is next door, maybe alone, and pregnant, and –  
  
And there will be a doctor with her, surely. Natasha’s phone won’t get signal, but they wouldn’t leave Pepper without medical help. And these walls are thick, Wakanda is protected, even now –  
  
T’challa could be launching an attack against the USA? Tony doesn’t want to think, he doesn’t want to – there’s a heavy pressure behind his right eye, burrowing and throbbing, rocking round his head to the base of his skull. He presses his hands to his temples, squeezes, and the pressure lessens some.  
  
“Let me help,” Natasha says quietly. “Tony.”  
  
“Fuck you,” he manages, and the pain spikes when he opens his eyes. Wakanda is so bright, their lights so crisp. Tony wishes –  
  
“You’re in pain,” Natasha murmurs “I can see if they have any pain relief here.”  
  
They won’t, Tony thinks. It’s a check-up room, there won’t be aspirin. “But I appreciate the thought,” he grits out.  
  
“Maybe we should put the IV back in.”  
  
“After it’s been on the floor?”  
  
“It might help, Tony.”  
  
And then Tony finds himself wheezing. He doesn’t remember pressing himself against the corner of the room, and he doesn’t remember how Natasha got a bloody nose. All he can think about is the god-awful pounding in his head, the pressure behind his eyes, and the absolute belief that his head is about to split open like a coconut. He groans, louder, and then hears his voice reaching that point where it will soon turn to a scream. The pain has never been this bad, it’s never been this bad, it’s never been –  
  
Natasha keeps smashing the screen of her phone with the tips of her fingers, trying to patch in for assistance. And Tony – the pain is so bad, so complete, that he can’t do much else but drool, slumped against the wall, twitching, paralysed. The world drifts. There are hands on his head.  
  
Natasha sings, he thinks. Or she whispers. When Tony vomits, she pushes his head to the side so he doesn’t choke to death. And he keeps twitching, body in spasm, eyes screwed shut and Natasha pushing her fingers through his hair, crushing his head in an attempt to alleviate pressure, wiping his mouth with her sleeve, his nose, his eyes.  
  
“You’ll be okay,” Natasha whispers “we’ll be okay.”  
  
And the room continues to shudder.  
  
The spasms stop, eventually. Tony’s head… feels heavy. Weighed down. He wants to speak; he can’t. Natasha dabs at the drool slipping from the side of his mouth and smoothes his hair back from his head. “Better?” She asks.  
  
Tony’s left eye is twitching. He looks for words. He can’t even begin to put into words how exhausted he feels. He settles for “I want to die.”  
  
“Because of the pain?”  
  
“I don’t have a home.”  
  
“You have a home. You have – us.”  
  
“No, I don’t.” And that’s true. He doesn’t have Rhodey and Pepper. He certainly doesn’t have Steve, or the rest of them. And now he’s held by Natasha, who he doesn’t want, and who has never in their entire history shown any inclination towards anything other than friendly animosity. The pain is still there, racking his temples. He breathes carefully, measured, deep breaths and pants. “I don’t have anyone. I don’t have – “  
  
His voice breaks. Shit, he – he should just shut his eyes, wait this out. Glass cabinets rattle. He wishes the ceiling would fall in, bury him deep, and never let him come out again. Encase him in rock.  
  
“You have so much to live for.”  
  
“I didn’t say I wanted to kill myself; I said I want to die.”  
  
“Is there a difference?”  
  
“Yes.” Tony screws his eyes tight, is suddenly conscious of Natasha’s hands in his hair. “Distract me,” he mutters.  
  
“Can I start by asking you a question?”  
  
“If it’s not taxing.”  
  
“What do you and Steve talk about? When you’re alone. I’ve seen you two talking and – I wonder.”  
  
“Wonder what?”  
  
“If he – if you – I want to know he’s not saying things, to you. Or that you aren’t – “  
  
“We discuss things. Plans for the future. We talk about what went wrong and how to fix it.”  
  
“Nothing else?”  
  
“Last night he talked me down.”  
  
Natasha’s hand keeps playing with soft hairs near his temples and Tony is weak. He hasn’t been touched like this in a long, long time, and he does not want it to stop. It feels to him like he exists in a vacuum, a black hole of time. Sure, the ground is shaking, his head is ready to detatch itself from his body, but he feels a remarkable calm. His thoughts start to… mash together. Time gets a little slippery.  
  
And he doesn’t doubt for a second Natasha is intimately aware of the effect she’s having, the traitorous bitch. Her fingers graduate from loosely shifting through his hair to a full on massage which – which has one eye droop close in an attempt to keep himself awake. He is weak, he thinks, because it’s like letting a viper sit on your lap, but he can’t bring himself to say ‘stop’. He doesn’t want her to stop. He’s still so jittery from the – what, seizure? Whatever that was, earlier, but the physical feeling of being so close to someone, of having them just  _touch_ him –  
  
He figures if he rolls and curls up, he can brush it off as pain later. He can say he was out of it, if Natasha wants to mock him. For now, though, he rests on his side, head on Natasha’s lap. She shushes him softly. She rests a cool hand on the back of his heated neck. She brushes hair from his eyes. She even sings.  
  
Slowly, carefully, Tony starts to drift. Held by delicate hands and tricked by his traitorous body. Buried safe in metal, low shudders shaking the ground. He feels safe. It’s easy to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, how about that brexit? That's what happens when you ignore the poorest in society and then give them actual, genuine democratic vote. Can't wait for the government to figure out a way to swing the result back to remain without appearing like an elected dictatorship, but okay.
> 
> In other news, this story is now Tony/Natasha. I'm really, really, really sorry if you signed on thinking it would be Steve/Tony; I hope this isn't going to ruin the Tony angst. But I'm having so much trouble just seeing them forge a way forwards within this universe I've created; this isn't to say I no longer write stony, because I absolutely do, and believe they are still pairable, but with everything that's happened in this story I just want to give Tony something more... natural? And something I could actually see happening, within this universe. Also I don't know how to construe civil war OTHER THAN Steve being absolutely ragingly in love with Bucky. 
> 
> So yeah. Please, your thoughts. If you're angry... please don't be angry in the comments. If you read this story because it was Steve/Tony and are now going to keep reading regardless, let me now, because that would be lovely. Anyway enjoy.


	13. Steve

When the siege is over, Steve is the first to find them, tucked in one of the medbays. Natasha is worn, pale, hungry, dark circles under her eyes and – and a bloody nose, bruised and still crusted red. Tony is resting, head on her lap, her hand curled protectively in his hair.  
  
“We need assistance,” she croaks. “We need help.”  
  
“Did he hurt you?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Natasha manages, and she’s uncharacteristically dulled. “Yes, no. He didn’t mean to.”  
  
“Is he…”  
  
“Sleeping. He’s okay. We’ve talked, his head is working fine.”  
  
“We need to evacuate this wing, it’s compromised. Here, let me take him. You need to go next door, Potts is – “  
  
“Is she okay?”  
  
“Fine, but shaken. Head back to the main floor, I’ll get a doctor to see to both of them.”  
  
Natasha carefully extricates herself from where Tony’s hand has curled in her shirt, gently lets his head rest on the dusty ground. Steve places a hand on her shoulder; “Hey,” he says.  
  
“What’s the damage?” Natasha asks.  
  
“War, apparently. Look, you go on up to the main floor. T’challa is there. Clint and Laura have rustled up some food, it’s not great but it’s hot. Ask Wanda for a blanket. We’ll explain.”  
  
“You have to bring Tony.”  
  
“I’ll get him. The power’s out across the compound so we’re on emergency lighting, follow it up the stairs. There are soldiers waiting.”  
  
“He had a seizure. He needs a doctor.”  
  
“I promise there will be a doctor on the main floor. Join the others and get some rest.”  
  
Steve hears Natasha mumble something about already having enough rest as he crouches down. “Tony,” he whispers “hey, hey Tony.”  
  
And Tony wakes with a start, a jerk, hands reaching out the grab Steve by the collar and tug him down. “What the fuck,” he manages blurrily “what the hell – “  
  
Steve’s hands go to where Tony is grasping him. “It’s me, Tony, it’s Steve. Hey hey, calm down, you’re alright. Pepper’s alright, Natasha’s alright, we’re all fine, but I’m gonna need to move you okay?”  
  
Tony blinks. “What happened?”  
  
“We were attacked,” Steve says, simply (bluntly). “We’re all okay, and we’re camping out on the main floor tonight.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Power’s down, for now. Oh don’t worry, emergency is working – defenses aren’t down, but T’challa says energy’s being siphoned to keep essentials running. Which means no lights, no air-con. Hey it’ll be okay, we’ll break out candles and – “  
  
“What did you about – about Pepper?”  
  
“That she’s fine,” Steve repeats calmly. “She’s fine, and we need to get you upstairs.”  
  
Tony stares at him. Slowly nods, and claps his hand on Steve’s back, lets him heave him up till sitting. “Catch your breath,” Steve says, and he gestures to the drool that’s just slipping out the side of Tony’s mouth.  
  
He wipes his sleeve over his lips clumsily and raises his eyebrows, bleary. His hair is sticking up at angles. “Sorry,” he says “tired. I – where’d Nat go?”  
  
“I sent her along. C’mon,” and Steve stands, holds out his hand to heave Tony up. “There’s soup.”  
  
“My favorite.” Tony makes a face.  
  
“I like soup,” Steve says defensively. Does Tony not like soup? “What’s wrong with soup?”  
  
“Nothing, nothing’s wrong with soup it’s – great,” Tony grumbles. “I haven’t eaten in ten years but no, hey, fossilized meat in lukewarm water is just what I need.”  
  
“It hasn’t been ten years.”  
  
“I know, it was a joke.”  
  
“Oh,” and Steve feels like an idiot “well if you need help – “  
  
Tony waves his hand. “I can make my way out, I know where I’m going. I’ve been down this way enough.”  
  
“And how’s your head?”  
  
“Fine. Okay.”  
  
“Natasha said you had a seiz – “  
  
“I didn’t. No no, that was – I was just in pain, that’s all. Nothing some coffee and blankets won’t fix. Plus my back is killing me. Sleeping on the floor, so. If that’s all.”  
  
“I’ll see you up there?” Steve asks, cautiously, prompting.  
  
“Right,” Tony agrees “in a moment. I will. See you there.”  
  
“And you’re sure you don’t – “  
  
“I’m fine,” Tony snaps, and his tone cracks, lets out that brittle side Steve just  _knows_ he’s been repressing. “I’m a big boy, I’m a grown man, leave me the fuck alone okay?”  
  
“Okay,” Steve says slowly. “Whatever you want, Tony. I’ll finish up down here and meet you in a second.”  
  
Tony drifts off, and Steve watches him make his way down the corridor. He worries, and focuses himself. There are still doctors and nurses locked in this rooms, and they need help. There is still work to be done.  
  
  
The main floor is buzzing. Emergency lights bask the room in a low glow, dark shadowed corners with warm spots where people have congregated. Sharon and Maria talking in low undertones, cut off from the rest, wrapped in a blanket. And Laura, fussing over Pepper, passing her food, getting her a pillow for her back, and footstool for her swollen ankles. Rhodey pouring over footage with T’challa, and Clint slumped on a couch, two children tucked under his arms and a third with a head on his lap.  
  
Natasha stands with Sam. And she shakes her head when she sees Steve come in. “See?” She says “He’s not with him. Steve, hey Steve,” she calls, pacing over. “Where’s Tony? He didn’t come with you?”  
  
“He said he’d make his own way up.”  
  
Natasha makes an irritated noise, Sam’s eyes meet his. No need to panic, Steve thinks, anything could have happened. Tony could have gone anywhere, maybe he’s helping someone. “Like this?” Natasha asks, and she points to her nose. “He attacked me, he’s not fit to be doing anything other than sitting in a bed, Steve.” She runs a hand through her hair, mouth twitching tight like it does when she’s supremely angry. “He’s erratic,” she says “and it’s getting worse.”  
  
“We’ll find him,” Steve says, soothing, calm, and he’s so tired, but he places a hand on Natasha’s shoulder and gestures to Sam. “C’mon,” he says “we’ll go.”  
  
“Wait, I’ll come,” Natasha says. “Let me just – “  
  
“Get some rest,” Steve manages (he wishes he could). “We’ll have him in a second, there’s only so far he can go.” And he tries to sound reassuring, even though Natasha looks at him with contempt, and he reminds himself that she’s just tired and someone’s got to do the job and so Steve will do it.  
  
They find him below. Way, way below. It’s Sam who calls out – whispers loudly –  _“Steve!”_ and Steve goes running.  
  
They moved Bucky down here some time after it became clear Ross knew they were in Wakanda. It’s about as deep in the compound you can go, buried in earth and stone, metal and concrete. Bucky rests here, in the bowels of Wakanda, kept in the dark in his isolated chamber. And Tony is standing, not quite – not quite in front of him, but more to the side, staring. Waiting, maybe.  
  
Steve has to swallow; pause and think. Sam keeps him back with a hand on his stomach and says not to startle him. Steve licks his lips. He breathes.  
  
“Tony,” he says, measuredly, cautiously. “Tony, what are you doing down here?”  
  
Tony doesn’t respond. He doesn’t turn. He keeps himself still, back to Steve and facing Bucky’s chamber. Steve hooks his fingers in his belt, turns to Sam, and Sam shrugs, shakes his head. So Steve steps forward and – carefully – rests a hand on Tony’s shoulder.  
  
He spins, sends a fist crashing into Steve’s jaw. Well aimed, well executed, surprisingly strong, yeah it’ll leave a bruise. Steve, stupidly winded, allows him to get another kick in, this time a knee to the groin, and had Steve been twenty pounds lighter he would be down and out. As it is, Tony just about manages to send him to his knees before one final move to Steve’s head.  
  
He stamps on it. Ouch. Steve’s world is dizzied, blinded, the world spinning around him, and Sam is wrestling Tony to the ground. It hurts his pride more than his balls, if he’s honest, but then again that’s what happens when you underestimate someone. It’s the same murderous rage that overtook Tony on the sub, the same one that would have prompted him to punch Natasha. Now, he’s clawing at the back of Sam’s head, raking his nails over his scalp, and when Sam pins him down –  
  
He tries to bite. “What are you doing?” Sam screams “Stark! What the hell do you think you’re doing!”  
  
Tony growls, spits, bucks himself trying to get loose. Steve has to force himself to sitting, and then slides over the dirty metal ground. “Tony,” he breathes, winded with pain. “Hey, Tony c’mon, it’s okay. Whatever’s got you spooked I’m sorry, it’s not – “  
  
Tony’s words are strangled, choking. Actually – actually Steve thinks Tony might actually be choking. He slaps Sam’s shoulders, pulls him off Tony’s chest, and he takes in long, rasping gasps for breath, like he’s been drowned. And then he’s sobbing, and then he’s heaving, and he’s asking “What did I do? What did I do, why’d you attack me what did I do?”  
  
“Attack you?” Sam asks, incredulous. “Tony you – you kicked Steve in the balls!”  
  
“What?” Tony wheezes, and he turns, still pinned to the ground, to look at Steve. “I didn’t – what are you doing? Where am I? What is this?”  
  
“Jesus Tony,” Steve breathes, and he slumps, closes his eyes for just a moment, fights exhaustion. “Tony you’re in – this is Bucky’s place.”  
  
Tony’s eyes are uncomprehending; he’s not lying when he says he can’t remember, and it doesn’t look like he was planning anything bad. He probably – got confused and wandered off. Or decided he wanted to wrap up some loose ends in private. And then whatever’s in his head confused him, and –  
  
“I’m losing time,” Tony blurts, and then his face crumples. “Oh god my head…”  
  
“C’mon,” Sam says softly “sit up.” He takes Tony hands and pulls him forward. “People are wondering where you are, you need to get upstairs.”  
  
Tony is silent ball, head pressed to his knees and hands fisted in his hair, but he’s silently shaking, form racked with sobs. Steve can’t imagine. Or maybe he could? If someone took away the one thing he was good for, if they – took away his strength, maybe. The one thing he could contribute, that no matter what he could always rely on to contribute. He’d feel the same, then. Unmoored, broken down.  
  
Tony seems to steady himself; he shuts his eyes, lifts his head. “If I can’t think,” he says, eyes swollen “then what the hell can I do?”  
  
“You can think,” Steve says confidently “look at the work you’ve done us. The bow you made Clint, the wings you’re working on for Sam. If you’re losing time – it doesn’t mean you’re stupid. It means you’re confused. And that’s not necessarily – “ Steve desperately seeks words “ – it’s not necessarily a physical thing, Tony.”  
  
And Sam nods. “I used to see it a lot, Stark. Men and women, don’t know up from down. You’ve been a through a lot. I mean – a lot, a lot. You spent months locked away, you were tortured, badly. Sometimes your head takes some time playing catch up to the rest of you. You lose track of time because… because your brain wants to forget, or it needs time to process.”  
  
“So my brain’s broken and my mind’s, what, drunk?”  
  
“Something like that,” Sam says with a small smile. “It’s only been a few days. We’ll sort out that tumour. And with the right help, your mind will heal too. And one day this won’t all seem so bad, trust me.”  
  
Steve thanks Sam inwardly for having the tact and kindness to say what Steve wouldn’t know how. Tony sniffs. He rubs at his eyes. “Christ,” he mumbles “I’m sorry about your balls.”  
  
“It’s not like I can have kids anyway.”  
  
Tony bites his lip, hard, and stands abruptly. “Sorry,” he says again “where was I supposed to go?”  
  
“Main floor,” Steve says gently. “There’s soup.”  
  
Tony’s nose wrinkles. “I hate soup.”  
  
“I know; we’ve had this discussion.”  
  
Once on the main floor, they scatter. Tony clears his throat and heads for Rhodes, Pepper, Bruce. He smiles, and tells them he was checking on his workshop. Sam finds Natasha and they sit, chewing on bread. Steve slumps against the wall, sits hard on the ground. His soup has gone cold but that’s alright. He feels useful, at least. Like he’s been of use. Saved some doctors, pulled Tony back from the brink, hey, he figures he deserves a blanket and to drink straight from the bowl.  
  
Wanda sits next to him, and Steve is momentarily frustrated that he can’t just have a moment of peace. The feeling passes, though, and Wanda rests her head on his shoulder. “That was bad,” she says quietly.  
  
“We knew it was coming.”  
  
“Hmm,” she says, distant. “I don’t – like it.”  
  
Steve wants to tell her that’s war. War is fighting, and war is a lot of sitting around and waiting it out with your heart in your throat. Then again, she would know.  
  
“I blamed him for so long,” Wanda whispers. “Do you know what that’s like? Having that in you? I was – a kid. Me and Pietro, we were kids. And after the bomb, after,” she clears her throat and sits up straight. “I was a kid. On the TV the showed this clip of Stark talking about – I don’t know, I can’t even remember, but they showed the logo, and they showed his face, and Pietro told me. He whispered in my ear and told that’s the man who killed our parents.”  
  
“You were kids,” Steve repeats, simply. “Is there anything else I can say? You blamed the wrong man, you were children, you didn’t know better. You let it eat you up. We have all done bad, bad things Wanda. No one gets to hold court over another now.” Steve pauses, thinks, and confirms. “No one. We’ve all done really, really bad things.”  
  
“I know that,” Wanda says. She slumps back down. “It was just a bit nerve racking, you know. I’m not – “ she plays with a strand of her hair “sometimes I wonder if I’m up to this.”  
  
Steve doesn’t want to have this conversation now, he doesn’t want to have to comfort her, he’s sorry but he can’t – do this right now. He settles for tugging her close and wrapping an arm about her shoulder and hoping that seem calming enough, understanding enough.   
  
But now T’challa is taking to the floor, and people are looking up. Steve had been hoping to sleep, he hasn’t slept since yesterday, but he handle a few hours more. Maria and Sharon are helping nurses lay down mattresses; looks like they’re sharing the room for the night. The king looks imposing, he looks furious, and he shouts across the hall.  
  
“Three day lock down,” he booms. “For everyone. That includes me. No one leaves, no one enters. We have a enough food for a week, enough water for a year. Any  _immediate,”_ he spits in a way that suggests there should be nothing immediate “questions?”  
  
Silence.  
  
So T’challa starts to pace. “We’ve been attacked,” he says. “No causalities, this time. There might be, next time. And there will be a next time.”  
  
The baby begins to cry. God, Steve can’t – can’t remember his name, Clint’s little one. He hates that he can’t remember the name. Laura shushes him gently, and T’challa softens. He clears his throat.  
  
“Obviously, this is retribution. It’s nothing we did not expect, it’s nothing we were not prepared for. It’s the first time Wakanda has been attacked externally since the British attempted an invasion in the 1700s. This will be the first war Wakanda has signed in longer than living memory.”  
  
There are rustlings throughout the room. “War?” One of the doctors asks, in English. “Your highness, you are talking about war…”  
  
“I am.”  
  
“For what? If I could advise – and I do not mean this as a slight against our guests, but to go to war with the USA when, on a technicality, they are  _legally_ in the right…”  
  
“Morally they are corrupt.”  
  
Steve winces. He should say something. He should say that he can’t go to war with the USA because he – he is the USA. And all they want is to be able to go home. They need the support of the people, they need the support some politicians, declaring war in their name –  
  
“You can’t,” Tony says, and then all eyes are on him.  
  
T’challa turns and stares. “I’m willing to listen.”  
  
Tony’s smile is sardonic. His face is pale, dark rims around his eyes, and his has a blanket pulled over his shoulders. “If you go to war with America, I don’t get to go home. Clint’s children don’t get to go home. No one gets to go home. If you go to war with America, no matter what happens, or how it ends, people will never forgive you, or us. And quite frankly, neither could I. I could never justify – hurting my people. Putting them through pain, simply so, what,” Tony counts his finger around the room “twenty or so people get to live and work in New York city.”  
  
There are murmurs of agreement, and Steve inwardly thanks Tony for having the presence of mind to say what he can’t bring himself to. “And what do you suggest, Stark?”  
  
Tony sighs. “A war of words, if you want. Luckily for us, America is still a democracy. For now. Outwardly, at least. People still have power, people still have – sway. Right now I’m willing to bet we aren’t their favorite people; I know it, I supported the Accords. People don’t trust us, they don’t like us, they see us murder and wreck, it’s not – it won’t be easy. Maybe if we’d had time after signing we could have shown them we have no intention of working without bounds, maybe we would be in a different place,” and the guilt clenches Steve’s chest “but we don’t have time now.”  
  
“And your plan?”  
  
“First of all we parley. With Ross. As soon as we can.”  
  
“You want compromise?”  
  
“I want to know what he wants, and where he sees this going. You, your highness, Steve. Sam, Natasha, Clint, Sharon and Maria if they want,” and he nods at them in their corner “and Rhodes. Me too.”  
  
“Not me?” Pepper asks “I don’t get to say anything?”  
  
“You didn’t sign the Accords.”  
  
“And what about me?” Wanda calls out. “Do I not count?”  
  
Tony’s mouth fixes itself into a disapproving line. “This isn’t personal,” he says “but – you’re not American, technically. I’m not sure what having you there would do.”  
  
Steve feels Wanda sour beside him. “And what, as someone who signed the – “  
  
“You didn’t, sign,” Tony says awkwardly. He keeps his eyes on the ground. “You… didn’t actually sign.”  
  
“Tony,” Steve asks, plaintively. “She has a right to be there.”  
  
Tony’s eyes dart to Steve’s; a brief, three second stare, and a compromise is hashed out, unspoken. “Fine,” he says “all of us, including Wanda. If she’s there it’s only fair Pepper and Laura get to be too.”  
  
“What would ask for, Tony?” T’challa questions “What do you see happening?”  
  
“We get on record formally his reason for the attack. I’m sure – that’s something your lawyers and advisors would handle. We ask for compromise on our terms, although I don’t doubt for a second it will be rejected.”  
  
“And then?”  
  
“And then Ross will probably continue to bomb us,” Tony says sharply.  
  
“Watch your tone,” T’challa advises “you tell me, as my adviser, how you think we sway your people to our cause.”  
  
“We tell them what happened, on the Raft. With me,” Tony says quickly “and then about Laura, Pepper, Rhodey. We really drive home the fact that there were kids locked up in there, that Pepper was pregnant and kept in solitary. That the kids weren’t allowed to see their father, that Laura and Pepper most of all had done nothing wrong. We drive home that if it can happen to them, it can happen to anyone.”  
  
“You’ve thought about this,” T’challa says dryly.  
  
“Every night,” Tony says, building up momentum. “We do separate interviews, we run ads. We each talk about the injustices leveled against us by Ross – but only the ones that seem undeserved, the ones that seem extreme. Everyone knows Rhodey’s a stickler for the rules, he was Iron Patriot! Imagine that, a war veteran locked up!  _And_ he signed the Accords! How disgusting.”  
  
“That’s clever,” Sharon says begrudgingly. “And he’s right.”  
  
“Meanwhile, it turns out I’ve developed high-tech prosthesis which could in theory be cheap and highly sellable, while offering 100% functionality. But – oh, America can’t get it. No, in fact no country can other than Wakanda, because America won’t let us do trade with them. Think of all the people who need new arms, new legs, I have the technology right here, right now, to make that happen, but Ross won’t let it.”  
  
“Do you?” Maria asks. “Really?”  
  
“Oh sure. I mean Wakanda’s also had that tech slowly reaching ground here for a few years too, but – but let’s just say I messed around a bit, back home, and if I had the right approval, we could be moving on to human testing. It’s game changing. And when they check out Rhodey’s new kicks, they’re gonna start questioning why exactly US veterans aren’t getting this stuff. And we make sure we drive it home that Ross is the only reason.”  
  
“I have a question,” Laura says, raising her hand. “Uh, what’s with the veterans? Not that they’re not – not great, but… is there no other angle?”  
  
Tony laughs. “If you stick patriotism on anything people will buy it. It’s how we used to sell weapons, we paid guys  _billions_ to lobby Congress on the basis of patriotic sentiment. Yes, that’s right, it’s good and right to buy weapons to kill people if it’s for the US of A. Stick a flag on something and you’re off. Boom. You want to cut the defense budged to pay for federal education programmes? Uh, we didn’t think so. I had a team of fifty who made sure any time it was even  _whispered_ they would launch a campaign against it. And no one wants to be seen as unpatriotic, least of all Ross.”  
  
“And so veterans?”  
  
“Because they’re a sanitized version of us. No one wants to know that I scream at night or Steve flinches at fireworks because we’re the bad guys. No offence, but we kill people. Soldiers, though? All they do is fight for their country, simple. So we make sure we play that angle as much as we can.”  
  
“You have experience,” Wanda says, not bitterly, just sad.  
  
“This was my job long before I flew around in a suit, Wanda.”  
  
T’challa nods slowly. “I will consider,” he says. “In the meantime, you are right. We need to officiate with Ross, or whomever, immediately. However it can’t be all of you. Stark, Rogers, you need to be there. Romanoff, and Rhodes too. My first plan of action is a united front between both of you,” and he nods at Tony then at Steve. “Enough in-fighting. Tony, we’ll need a real statement about your time in the Raft. We’ll make it plain to Ross that should he continue his plan of action, we will retaliate the best ways we know how. We won’t let him forget that Wakanda is and always will be technologically better, no matter what our size.”  
  
“Just like Tony,” Bruce says, and then the tension snaps. Tony grins, and people laugh. Steve feels like he can breathe again.  
  
“I’m not short,” Tony grumbles good-naturedly.  
  
“You make up for it in other places,” Pepper replies with a wink and Rhodey claps his hands, clears his throat and coughs loudly. Tony finds it funny, though, because he keeps laughing, and it’s the first time Steve has seen Tony laugh like that in a long, long time.


	14. Natasha

“Nice suit,” Natasha smiles. Tony is fiddling with the cuffs of a jacket, hastily tailored and yet still well-fit. It’s strange to see him looking so out of place in an outfit he once would have owned, and depressingly even stranger to see him in a suit at all. Natasha had almost forgotten he used to wear these on the daily, that he once ran a business, that he used to actually have –  
  
“Thanks,” Tony says shortly. “I – yeah. Does it look tight? It feels tight.”  
  
“It fits fine.”  
  
Tony makes an unhappy noise. “Yeah, well.” He smoothes his palms down pants, and Natasha knows they’re sweating. “You’re nervous,” she comments.  
  
“No,” Tony snaps “I’m not. I just – you know – seeing Ross – “  
  
“I understand.”  
  
“You don’t. I don’t want him to look at me and think that everything somehow affected me, because it didn’t. I’m fine.”  
  
“You look fine.”  
  
“Do I?” And there’s the first hint of desperation in Tony’s voice. “Because – I don’t know, don’t I look weird? I feel – what if Ross – “ Tony shakes his head “I just don’t want him to look at me and think I’m weak, you know?” he says lamely. “Is that pathetic? I probably shouldn’t care. Sorry, I don’t know why I’m – “  
  
“It’s okay. You can be nervous. He’s over there and you’re here. And you have something he wants.”  
  
Tony seems to take this at face value. He goes back to fiddling with his cuffs. “Nice dress,” he mutters, staring at his shoes.  
  
“Thank you,” Natasha says easily. “I was up all night with a stylist so you would hope so, wouldn’t you?”  
  
Tony sniffs. “What is that?”  
  
“I don’t know, Chanel I think.”  
  
“Why? It’s not like Ross can smell you.”  
  
“I think it’s for effect,” Natasha smiles. She holds out her arm. “Come on,” she says “it’ll be over soon.”  
  
Tony waits a beat and then takes her up on the offer. “I’m too skinny,” he grumbles “Ross is going to look at me and think I haven’t been eating.”  
  
“You haven’t.”  
  
“Natasha, could you just – be with me, on one thing?” But he’s smiling, and Natasha knows not to take it to heart. She pats his arm and deposits him in one of the chairs at the conference table, at the front along with her and Steve, and watches as some last minute makeup artists descend and pat powder over the places he’s sweating, coif his hair into an artful ‘I woke up this way: perfect’.  
  
T’challa strides in, then, takes his place at the head of the table. Some technicians fiddle with the large screen, set up a projector, make sure the cameras, microphones, lights are all working. Steve quietly sits next to her, lets a man powder his face. His suit is stretched obscenely tight over his chest, it almost makes her want to laugh, which she realizes is  _bad._  
  
Rhodes wheels in, then. He takes the seat next to Tony, and they talk in low voices, and Natasha wishes she could hear what they are saying. A man behind a camera starts counting down on his fingers. The room goes dark, other than the lights. The screen lights up.  
  
Ross appears.  
  
He’s flanked Ross, the  _other_ Ross on his left, the short one, the jobsworth, Natasha can’t even remember his first name. And to his right –  
  
Oh, no. No now is no time to show panic. Natasha knows that Tony will be panicking, but she can’t turn to look at him because Ross is  _right there_ and Tony was right, he shouldn’t have to look weak. But that’s – Natasha knows that’s Kevin,  _the_ Kevin, the one that Tony –  
  
“Your Majesty,” Ross drawls. “Captain, Colonel. Ms Romanoff. And Stark too, look at that.”  
  
“Mr Ross.”  
  
“I should thank you, for scheduling this,” Ross huffs. “It was a long time coming. Now – your Majesty, let me be clear that my actions are all within due course of law. There is no one on earth who would contest that I didn’t have a right to launch a strike after you not only  _violated_ my country, but stole its citizens.”  
  
“I wouldn’t dream of claiming anything under law,” T’challa says smoothly. “I wouldn’t presume, knowing that it is so easily changed under your hand.”  
  
“You supported those Accords.”  
  
“I supported my version of them. I did not support what you did. I made that clear.” T’challa leans back in his chair, drums his fingers against the table. “You do not act within the law. The UN does not condone torture, or illegal imprisonment.”  
  
“Stark’s was legal.”  
  
“I’m not talking about Stark, I’m talking about Laura Barton, and James Rhodes, and Virginia Potts. Children. I’m talking about Sharon Carter and Maria Hill, and – a pregnant woman. Tell me, on what legal grounds did you lock them away?”  
  
“Conspiracy. Conspiracy and treason.”  
  
“To what?”  
  
“To help the Captain, to help you, to help Stark. All of it is legal with someone maneuvering, I’m not worried. Especially with the current political situation.”  
  
“Would it help your current political situation if it was to emerge that you had a nation’s hero tortured? Or a military veteran in need of medical care locked in a bunker in DC?”  
  
“Keeping people locked away for their own good is a principle of Tony’s, if I recall,” Kevin puts in. “I’m not sure you can fight fire with fire there, T’challa.”  
  
T’challa blinks, and then stares. “Excuse me?” He asks, and his voice is so hard, so cold “I’m not sure I know who you are.”  
  
“There’s a key difference between keeping a young woman who has just caused the accidental murder of dozens as a result of lack of control locked in her bedroom and imprisoning eight individuals on zero grounds other than leverage.” Rhodey says calmly. “A key, key difference. And it’s a difference people will notice. People are not stupid, General.”  
  
“Well exactly,” Ross sighs “I know that. Which is why – look, can I be frank? There are elections coming up. Ellis is out, no two ways about it, he’s lucky he escaped impeachment as it is. I don’t want to be president but the last thing I need is a national scandal affecting my man.”  
  
“Your man?” Steve asks, eyebrow arched. “Who’s that?”  
  
“My candidate. Mitt J. Walter. Running for the democrats, haven’t you been watching the news? The conference was last week Captain, isn’t it your job to keep on top of this?”  
  
“You’re saying you can exercise significant influence over this man,” T’challa asks plainly. “What is that, a threat?”  
  
“No. I’m stepping down. It will be my recommendation, however, that the new Mr President – because it will be Mitt, no doubt, would you vote GOP after everything that happened? – does a few things. Firstly, I’ll be recommending the pardon of every one superhero who resisted the signing of the accords. I’ll recommend that Barnes be treated in an American psychiatric facility. I’ll recommend that Wakanda’s embassy is reinstated in Washington. I would recommend appointing the Captain as head of a new taskforce specifically dedicated to the regulation of superpowered beings. I would recommend Stark for the position of Secretary of State.”  
  
“You’re joking,” Tony dead-pans “you’re crazy.”  
  
“There would be stipulations, obviously. I would recommend that – since, for example, Bruce Banner wasn’t present for the forming of the Accords and, as far as I’m aware, he is still AWOL, he will not be included in the pardon. Similarly, Miss Maximoff would have to gain citizenship legally and fully before she is able to work in the USA. The Accords will remain in their current form. But, for the sake of peace, and for the sake of America, I am willing to offer an olive branch,” Ross says magnanimously. “A full integration between our opposing camps, not to mention, your Majesty, that accepting would put an end to the war you are about to enter. I think it would be highly prudent to consider accepting.”  
  
“Where’s Vision?” Tony barks, and Natasha winces. Tony never would have been so head-strong before, but fear is making him loose. “You told me you had him, where is he?”  
  
“Vision isn’t human. He isn’t a superpowered individual. He does not come under any law. We are dealing with him appropriately.”  
  
“Like you dealt with me?”  
  
A long silence. “Yes, Tony,” Ross says a touch patronizingly. “Like we dealt with you.”  
  
Tony shutters off, Natasha can see it. She can practically feel it, he’s unreachable. He’s sweating through his makeup, Tony would hate this, he would hate that Ross is there, both Ross’, and Kevin, and Kevin must be able to tell because he’s smiling, smarmy. “Sounds like that’s a latent threat,” Natasha says smoothely. “We don’t need to negotiate further.”  
  
“You’ll consider my offer?”  
  
“We’ll consider everything you’ve said here today, Ross,” T’challa says shortly, voice low. “In the meantime, while you wait for our deliberations, a ceasefire.”  
  
“Of course. And after?”  
  
“You should wait and see.”  
  
  
Natasha tries to grab Tony before he’s swept away in a sea of technicians. “Hey,” she calls “Tony, hey – hey!”  
  
He slaps her hand away from his arm. “What do you want?” He hisses, and the sweat has beaded on his brow.  
  
“I want to ask if you’re okay. I want to let you know you were fine out there.”  
  
He wrenches away and turns. She tries to call him back, regrets saying anything at all, but then Steve is steering her to the main floor. “Discussion time,” he mutters.  
  
“You think it’s a good idea? Ross’s treaty?”  
  
Steve is silent. “I think… it’s dangerously generous.”  
  
“Good. So we won’t be accepting.”  
  
“I didn’t say that.”  
  
“Steve.”  
  
Steve sits himself on a couch, loosens his tie, smiles at a server who offers him a glass of juice. “There are people here who’s lives are at risk. There are children to think about. We want to go home.”  
  
“I can’t believe it,” Natasha mutters. She sits, rubs her hand over her head. “You’ve done it. You’ve crisscrossed. Jesus fucking – excuse my language – but Jesus fucking Christ, Steve. After all that? Was it worth it? Barnes was  _always_ going to be put in an American psychiatric facility, half the things Ross listed aren’t even  _new,_ its just how it was always meant to be! And now, after he tortured your friend, and locked up your – “  
  
“Did I say I was going to accept it?”  
  
“Steve,” Natasha says, deadly. “Steve we can’t split on this, not now.”  
  
“Where’s Stark?” T’challa asks, striding through. He’s got two attendants on his arm, a loosened tie, and he looks furious. “He needs to be here.”  
  
“He said – “ and Rhodey looks tired “ – that he was going to sleep. He was – it took a lot out of him.”  
  
T’challa huffs. “Fine,” he relents “let him rest. As it stands, there is not much I can say. Think on what Ross said, inform your friends. The decision you make will not be taken lightly, and I cannot tolerate a split. A united front, a united taskforce – “ and Natasha thinks T’challa is starting to sound increasingly embittered, exhausted “ – that’s all I need from you. I need cohesion. I need for all of you to determine what’s in your collective best interest.”  
  
He glares, then, at Natasha and Steve, like he had overheard their conversation. Who knows, maybe he did. T’challa leaves in a flurry of attendants, all gasping to get his attention, and Natasha thinks that maybe they’re beginning to outstay their welcome.  
  
“We’ll vote,” Steve says. “All of us, we’ll vote, except the kids, obviously. We’ll – do it the right way, this time.”  
  
“Sure,” Natasha agrees. “Sure, that’ll work.”  
  
Steve tries to smile. “I’m going to get changed. I promised Clint I’d take the kids for a few hours so he could get some time in with Laura. You know, I don’t think their – “  
  
The lights go out. Natasha blinks, Steve stands; he grabs her wrist. “I knew it,” he hisses “you see? Ross was never going to give us time – “  
  
“Steve it could be anything,” Natasha says, although she knows the odds aren’t in her favor. “Relax, back down. Here,” she drags him to a guard who is rapidly tapping at a tablet “excuse me, what’s going on? Can we – “  
  
The lights are back. Palpable relief. The guard’s face breaks into a shaky grin. “Sorry,” he says “I don’t know, I think – maybe the systems took a knock during the bombardment. Everything on line here, though.”  
  
“You see?” Natasha says, and she smiles even while Steve’s face is still stony. “It’s fine. We’re all safe. I think you need a nap, too. You men are like boys, I swear.”  
  
“Natasha that’s not normal.”  
  
“Go to sleep, Steve. Get into something comfortable, you look like you’re choking.”  
  
Steve grabs her shoulder and leans in close, fast. “You’re too relaxed,” he hisses “why are you so relaxed? Natasha – “  
  
She wrenches away. “Grab me like that again and I’ll stick my foot up your ass. I’m trying to be nice, Steve. You’re clearly going through something. Go and rest before you do something stupid.”  
  
He looks upset, and Natasha feels mildly guilty. She knows what Steve is going through, she knows she’s supposed to be more understanding. Steve looks at her, and then away. “No,” he says “no, no. I said I’d sit with the kids.”  
  
Natasha gives a long-suffering sigh. Steve, she thinks, loves to make a martyr out of himself. “Fine then,” she says. “Go and sit with the kids. We’ll discuss what happened over dinner, make sure everyone’s there.”  
  
“What are you going to do now?”  
  
Natasha shrugs. “I’m sure I’ll find something.”  
  
She does. Tony is standing on a balcony overlooking the jungle. He hasn’t changed clothes, and if anything he looks even worse than he did in the meeting. His hair is plastered to his brow, bags have sprung up under his eyes, and his skin is pale, washed out. “Do you need a doctor?” Natasha asks calmly, because that’s a common thing to say to Tony nowadays: How are you, do you need a doctor?  
  
Tony jerks, rubs a hand over his face. His hand is shaking though, his skin practically transparent. “I – “ he mumbles “Scandal, Washington.”  
  
Natasha pieces this together. “Yeah,” she says “yeah, I know. There will be.”  
  
“Democrat – olive branch.”  
  
“You think we need to offer the democrat’s an olive branch? You mean – Ross’s man? Mitt?”  
  
“AWOL,” Tony says “AWOL.”  
  
This isn’t the first time Tony has been nonsensical. Panic, stress, medication, any mix of things can bring it on. “I think you should lie down,” Natasha says gently.  
  
Tony nods. “Yeah,” he says “I will – lie down. In my bed, now.”  
  
“Do you need help?”  
  
Tony’s smile is sudden, and stretches his face unnaturally. “No thank you, Natalie. I know my way.”  
  
Natasha watches him go and ponders that name. What is it, Tony’s attempt at being casual? Maybe a joke nickname? Or maybe it’s him reminding Natasha, yet again, she’ll have to do a bit more to ever actually earn her trust.  
  
  
So Natasha takes herself away to mull over what Ross said. The possibilities. Could the accept? It would mean considerable loss of face, although there are many people who might say they’re selfish not to. Putting people’s lives on the line, staying here.  
  
But obviously it’s a play. A play by Ross. There’s no way those terms could be real, they’re too overly generous for a group of people who, under law, could be charged with treason and murder. So what then? Ross wants them, and what for? Other than to look good, or turn around and arrest them, which he could do anyway without offering Tony Secretary of State and Steve a fancy new position. He doesn’t have to pardon them at all, he could just declare war and name them as a price for peace.  
  
Even if they could accept, would they want to live in a world where Ross has dictated their terms? Where Ross puts them in their place? Where they’re Ross’s puppets? After what happened with Tony, how could they let that happen. Vision still captive, Pepper pregnant with a baby she doesn’t want, how could they ever accept Ross’s terms? Natasha makes her mind up then: at worst, it’s a trap. At best, they live the rest of their lives indentured to the man who tortured Tony. Seeing as their best is bad, Natasha reasons the deal is non-negotiable.  
  
The lights flicker, and then go out. First, Natasha waits for them to turn back on, for generators to boot up, for emergency power to light the halls.  
  
This doesn’t happen. Worse than that, Natasha feels the moment the silent vibrations that she never noticed before now disappears; cuts off, in an instant. Then, all she can hear is silence. Real, actual silence, except for the sound of the jungle outside her balcony.  
  
Fumbling, she searches for her phone, switches on the torch. The others will be on the main floor still, no doubt, she just needs to get there. The corridors are completely dark, empty, not a server in sight. Natasha feels herself holding her hand against the wall despite the fact she’s a grown woman – and assassin, even – and should not be scared of the dark. But something about these long, stretching hallways, the blackness of them, it’s so reminiscent of the Red Room she feels better with a hand on –  
  
She nearly – almost – jumps out of her skin when a figure crosses her path. And then she grabs his shirt, pulls him back. “Tony,” she hisses “what the hell are you doing?”  
  
He stares at her, eyes wide in the gloom. And then his eyes shift past her, slightly. Stare at a spot just to the side of her.  
  
She frowns, and turns. Bucky Barnes is standing there, silent and melted into shadows, and Natasha gets the distinct impression she’s been caught.  
  
Tony’s hands goes for her neck. “I’m sorry,” he’s saying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”  
  
She grips his shoulders, knees him once, brutally, in the groin and kicks him back. “I’m sorry,” she repeats back at him “Tony I’m so – “  
  
Barnes takes her, then. Only with the one arm, yet so powerful; Natasha couldn’t have beaten him last time, now it’s only just evenly matched. She snaps a hand against his throat, he recoils slightly. Then he goes for her stomach, or so she thinks; Natasha moves to block, and he feints, instead wraps a fist in her hair and  _pulls,_ which hurts enough that it distracts her momentarily. She tries to keep her focus on kicking his legs out from under him but he has her hair wrapped around his fist, and so Natasha’s reconciles herself to a mild scalping.  
  
But he’s stronger. It doesn’t matter that Natasha is faster, more evenly balanced, thinking on her feet, that doesn’t matter when Barnes is almost just clever and fast. What does matter is that despite Natasha’s strength, she will never have Barnes’ weight; he has her crushed, first against the wall, and then floor. He’s choking the life out of her with one hand.  
  
She coughs, tries to break his grip. She could, maybe, it’s only one hand, but she’s rapidly losing oxygen. She hears Tony: he keeps saying he’s sorry, that he needs help, there’s something wrong. “It’s okay,” she manages. “We’ll –  _fix you,”_  
  
Darkness hits her. She’s aware, she can hear, but her vision has fizzled to nothing, blood is pounding in her ears. A few moments more of awareness, and then nothing.  
  
  
She wakes in the medbay with a neckbrace. “It’s temporary,” Sam informs her. “Do you need it? You tell me.”  
  
No one ever beats around the bush with her. No one ever lingers by her bedside and tells her to get better. She coughs, feels IV in her hand, hastily prepared. She’s not even wearing a hospital gown, still just the scuffed dress they’d put her in for the meeting with Ross. She raises a hand to rub her nose, clear the dust she feels there, and then lets it drop to her throat.  
  
“What happened?” She croaks. Croak is generous: rasps.  
  
“We’re fine. No one’s dead. You have a bruised larynx, Steve has a black eye, Wanda has a sprained wrist. But we’re okay. We wouldn’t be, if Wanda hadn’t – done her thing.”  
  
Natasha shivers. She hates Wanda’s thing. “And Tony?”  
  
Sam looks away. “I don’t know,” he says “we’ll see.”  
  
That’s just irritating, Natasha thinks. Being so vague like that. “Where is he?” She snaps. “What happened to him?”  
  
“At best, he was forced. At worse, he’s been working against us the whole time.”  
  
“You really believe that.” Natasha asks flatly.  
  
Sam shrugs. “I’ll believe what I see evidence for.” He holds out a hand. “They have him now, if you want to watch. Steve’s talking to him.”  
  
  
He sounds exhausted. Not even upset, just resigned, like he was expecting this to happen, like the worst has occurred and he’s always known it was coming. “I want a drink,” Tony says “I haven’t had a damn drink in months. What does a guy have to do to get some whiskey?”  
  
“I don’t think Wakanda does that,” Steve replies, and he doesn’t sound angry or antagonistic. “Tony, we need to talk – “  
  
Tony lolls on the table, rests his head where his arms are shackled to a bolt in the middle. “I don’t know,” he says wearily “I don’t know what happened. A fuzz. All I knew is – what I had to do.”  
  
“Which was?”  
  
“Release the Winter Soldier. Have him kill everyone.”  
  
The doctor’s behind the glass start murmuring. Natasha wills them to shut up. “When did you realize this was what you had to do?”  
  
“Am I a prisoner?” Tony asks. “Am I going to be interrogated again? Because I… I’m tired, Steve. I honestly don’t know what to tell you, I – yes, yeah, it’s a possibility that ideas were – you know, Kevin would – back in, when I was in the Raft.”  
  
Steve nods, understanding, and Natasha hates that she’s been left out of the loop. “You think that’s what he was doing to you?” He murmurs, voice low. “You think he did to you what they did to Bucky.”  
  
A pause, and then an almost imperceptible nod. “I don’t know what else,” he croaks.  
  
Natasha presses a button on the intercom. “There were words,” she butts in. “Tony was saying words, repeating them, a few hours before it happened.”  
  
“You’re alive,” Tony mutters with a small – just small – smile, staring at the ceiling. “I was wondering about that, no one tells me anything.”  
  
Sam tries to stop her, but then she’s opening the heavy door and stepping into the chamber. “I think we need to take another look at that lump in your head,” she says gravely. “I think we need to consider the fact this might have been built into you.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Steve asks, turning. “Who invited you in?”  
  
Natasha ignores him. “Do you remember the words?” She directs her question pointedly at Tony. “Could you say them?”  
  
Tony shakes his head. “I don’t know what you mean.”  
  
“If I say – scandal? Democrat? Washington – “  
  
Tony’s hands snap the chains as he tries to tug free. “Stop it,” he hisses. “Stop that.”  
  
Natasha turns to Steve. “We’ll need an analysis on both of them. Check out blood pressure, brain pulses, everything that happens physically when we say those words. I’ll bet you a thousand dollars we see that Tony’s is linked to the tumor in the back of his skull.”  
  
Tony is still having trouble processing, though. He grunts, twists his hands in the cuffs, tugs them again. “Are you going to lock me up again?” He asks “Back in one of the cells.”  
  
“No one is locking you anywhere,” Steve assures.  
  
“Where’s Barnes now? Did you freeze him again, after our joyride?”  
  
Steve carefully smoothes his hands over the table, resolutely stares at his fingers. “No,” he says, placidly. “No, he’s – awake.”  
  
“And?” Tony snaps “And what are you going to do with him? What are you going to do now? You’re going to have to actually help him, I know, difficult for someone who can’t  _fucking follow through on anything –_ “  
  
“You’re agitated,” Natasha notes. “I’m sorry, I should have waited before I tried out the words.”  
  
“It’s like bees in my brain,” Tony jitters. He’s shaking his leg, up and down, up and down, up and down. “Can’t think. I don’t remember a lot, from the Raft, okay? I don’t remember a lot. Things come and go. But I keep having a dream, it’s this dream where – I’m on a gurney, and I’m being wheeled down a hall. I’m frightened, I don’t know what happening. Sometimes I think I can feel someone in my brain but – I also think I might have imagined it. The doctors told me it was a flesh tumor. They said it was a naturally grown, flesh tumor. They would  _notice_ if it was metal, I’d be beeping everytime I went through a detector. I – “ Tony really is agitated now, looking past them into the mirror, trying to snap his hands free. “Can you let me go? I’d feel better if you let me go. I’ll tell you anything you need to know, but – I really don’t like my hands like this. I don’t like it. Please.”  
  
He’s asking them with big round brown eyes, imploring. Natasha and Steve share a look. “We can’t,” she says softly. “I’m sorry.”  
  
Tony is resigned. “I take it Barnes is free?”  
  
“We know what we’re dealing with with Bucky,” Steve says patiently. “This is different.”  
  
“Do I get to sleep tonight? In my own bed? Or are you going to keep me here all night?”  
  
“Maybe if – “ Natasha is tentative. “Maybe if we keep you cuffed. I don’t see why not.”  
  
“Kinky.” Tony dead-pans.  
  
“You tried to strangle me, Tony. I think you can forgive us if we want to keep a close eye on you tonight.”  
  
“But I said sorry the whole time, doesn’t that count for something?”  
  
“Oh, so you remember that now?”  
  
“Yeah. That, and you kicked me in the balls.”  
  
“Kinky,” Natasha echoes bluntly.  
  
“T’challa’s furious,” Steve breaks in. “He doesn’t know how you commanded the system like that. He said – and no offence – but you’re really not that clever, not compared to his techs, so he can’t understand – “  
  
“Uh, okay,” Tony frowns “I am clever, actually,” and it warms Natasha to see how defensive he gets. “Secondly, I couldn’t tell you how, I was brainwashed at the time, although I’m sure there’s footage. Actually, on that note – if this, this  _thing,_ in my head is some kind of, I don’t know, brainwashing, tracking, whatever, how do we know what Ross knows?”  
  
“Excuse me?” Steve asks.  
  
“I mean – how do we know he’s not listening to our conversation right now?”  
  
The gears in Natasha’s head start to move. “You said it was too easy,” she says slowly. “To break him out of the Raft, remember? You told me, you said it was far, far too easy.”  
  
“Let us take him in, destabilize us from within,” Steve counters.  
  
“And then, when the time’s right, have him release Barnes. Either Tony gets the blame, or we’re forced to kill Bucky. Maybe kill Tony, too, that removes a witness to what Ross did on the Raft. It would remove any reason for us to really stay here, with nothing to fight for. If Ross got really lucky, he might even have got T’challa’s head in there for a fair price.”  
  
Steve leans back in his chair, rubs his hand over his face. “Clever,” he mutters “it’s clever.”  
  
“What happened on the Raft?” Natasha asks urgently. “Tony we need to know, now. When you say Kevin shocked you, do you mean – “  
  
“I mean I can’t remember, exactly,” Tony manages, only slightly desperate. He holds up his hands, shackled by the cuffs. “He’d get me at a table a bit like this. Ask me questions. If I could answer them, fine, if I couldn’t, I’d get a shock. Like the rats.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Skinner’s rats. Kevin – Kevin’s big into behavioral psychology. Positive and negative reinforcement. There’s a facility in Massachusetts…” Tony trails off. “You get the idea,” he says. “It was joke for him. He liked to play with me.”  
  
Natasha feels strangely tender. She can see it in her minds eye, Tony, skinnier that he is now, dirtier. Head shaved, eyes wide, hands cuffed and electrodes on his skin.  _What’s the capital of New Zealand?_ Exhaustion, hunger, pain, all of it clouds his mind. He’s too slow. Kevin presses a button, and bang, Tony’s twitching in the chair opposite.  
  
It disturbs her. It gives her a thought. “Shave your head,” she says.  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“If they messed with your head there’ll be a scar. Seriously. It’s that simple. You came back with short hair, what, were they cutting it for you? Or had it already been shaved off and just grown back in?”  
  
Tony runs a protective hand over his hair. “I don’t want to.”  
  
“Fine, we’ll just shave the back of it and you can rock a backwards mullet.”  
  
“Steve, Natasha is being out of order today.”  
  
“I’m glad you can joke, but she’s right. I’m sorry, Tony. Until we know what’s going on you’re going to have to be kept under guard.”  
  
“Fantastic.” Tony enunciates, rolling the word over his tongue. It’s so pithy Natasha wants to smile. “And what about Barnes? He’ll just keep roaming around?”  
  
“He’s with T’challa.”  
  
“I see,” Tony says, and his smile is shark-like. “Special treatment.”  
  
Steve doesn’t say anything for a moment, just rubs a hand over his eyes. “Whatever you want to think,” he says tiredly. “I need to see him. Natasha, could you – “  
  
“Babysit?” Tony puts in.  
  
“I was going to say take first watch, but sure,” Steve smiles a little too sweetly. “Babysit works too.”  
  
  
“All I’m saying is, a) he’s an ass, and b) why would T’challa think I’m not clever? I’m plenty clever, I’ll show him clever. I’ll take down the whole country’s defense, and then we’ll see what clever means.”  
  
“Hmm,” Natasha hums non-committedly, leading Tony down the corridors, hands still cuffed. “You’ll get yourself thrown in jail to prove your clever, right?”  
  
“I’ve been thrown in jail for less, Natasha.”  
  
She throws her phone on the couch, unzips her jacket. “Go toilet now because you’re not getting up in the night.”  
  
“What, no help?”  
  
“I know toilet sure is hard, but I know you can figure it out yourself.”  
  
Tony snorts derisively and kicks the toilet door shut with his foot. Natasha bundles her sweater under her head and lies down on the couch. Sometime later, she hears Tony’s bed creak. She doesn’t say anything, and neither does he. And then, sometime after that, his breathing evens out, and she knows he’s fallen asleep.  
  
She doesn’t mean to drift off. She needs to be alert. But a small part of her mind tells her there are cameras, and microphones, and Tony’s hands are cuffed, and she’s such a light sleeper she’ll hear him if he tries to sneak away. Really, she needs to be in the medbay, her throat still swollen. It’ll kill her in the morning, she’ll need some strong stuff, and it’ll be a soup diet for most of the week.  
  
Natasha has bad dreams. Strange dreams, where Tony sits across her and she shocks him, over and over, but then she realizes she’s a rat. Ross’s smug face, Barnes hands on her throat. The Red Room. Mother’s slap against her cheek. A knife in her hand.  
  
She jerks awake because she knows something’s wrong, and she’s partially right. Tony is standing over her, staring down, sleepless, hair mussed, eyes wide. She worries firstly that he’s brainwashed, secondly that he’s sleep walking. But then he blinks, and says “You were crying.”  
  
Natasha goes to deny it, presses a hand to her cheek in the process, and realizes that, yes, she had been. “A bad dream,” she croaks.  
  
“I know,” Tony says distantly. “I thought – I should wake you. But then I felt…”  
  
“Like it was an invasion of privacy.”  
  
“Right,” Tony mumbles. “Right, yeah. That.”  
  
Natasha stares up at him for a long time. He doesn’t seem entirely awake. “Why weren’t you sleeping?” She asks, eventually.  
  
“That’s how Ross got me last time. If I sleep, who knows. Might go on a rampage. I’m scared he might make me jump out the window.”  
  
“I don’t think he can do that.”  
  
“Still. My mind isn’t my own.”  
  
Natasha can’t say much that would make that untrue. “You should sleep,” she says. “I’ll make sure nothing happens.”  
  
Tony shakes his head. “You need to sleep,” he replies. “You’re exhausted.”  
  
“I’ll be fine.”  
  
“No, you won’t. You were crying.”  
  
“We all have bad dreams.”  
  
“And? That doesn’t mean we have to pretend they don’t happen.”  
  
Natasha lets her eyes shut for a moment. Arguing with Tony like this is exhausting when he’s right. She looks up, and Tony is holding out one, cuffed hand.  
  
“What do you want?” Natasha asks suspiciously.  
  
“The bed is big,” is all Tony says. “It’s easier to sleep with two, and you look uncomfortable on the couch.”  
  
That’s true. It is uncomfortable. Tony takes one side, Natasha the other, and they both sleep over the covers, a respectable distance. Still, when Tony rolls in the night, Natasha doesn’t back away, and if she presses her head to his chest – just to hear a heart, any heart, and remember she is not alone – he doesn’t mention it in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, feedback is really important on this one! I'm going to try and just work at it slow and steady and have a fixed update day (let's say every friday?) so if you could please give me some feedback before then? I'll post a few snippets in the next chapter, although I'd appreciate it if you could put any feedback you have on those snippets in this chapter's thread?
> 
> Lmao I said feedback way too many times. I have talked enough!! Anyway I hope y'all enjoy where this one is going, and I hope y'all enjoyed Civil War as much as I did, AND y'all are ready for a nice, traumatic, fix-it.


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